WP
by Serialgal
Summary: Charlie is put into a special witness protection program, and he and Don have to deal with the ramifications.
1. Chapter 1

_**WP**_

_A/N: Most of this story takes place five years in the future. Accordingly, it will probably end up being at odds with what happens this season, so consider it AU. It was generated by an idea that came out of another story I wrote – namely, what would happen if Charlie had to go into witness protection for an extended period of time, and more specifically, what would happen when he came back? _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters, just the storyline. This disclaimer applies to each chapter in this story. _

_Most of this story is finished, and it will end up at around twenty chapters – I know, a short one, for me. I will be striving for a twice-a-week post. _

**Chapter 1 - The Tank**

_December 8, 2013_

The communications tech knocked lightly on the metal door and started a bit as it swung open, almost immediately. The professor looked hungrily at the phone in the tech's hand and stepped back to allow him inside. "Hey, Joe," he said. His voice was level, but Joe could see suppressed anticipation and tension in his body. Dr. Eppes, like many of the residents here, lived for his twice-monthly phone call.

For those who actually lived in the main building that housed the think tank, Dr. Eppes' quarters were the equivalent of a dormitory room. Cinderblock walls painted a light cream color were broken only by two metal doors, one that gave way to the hallway, and one that led to a small bathroom. It was larger than most dorm rooms, and boasted a double bed, two desks, a small refrigerator, a microwave, and a television. There was carpet on the floor, and the stark décor had been softened with knick-knacks and a picture or two. Still, it reminded Joe of a prison cell, which was appropriate, since the people who resided here were in essence, prisoners. They were all exceptional intellectually, which was why they had been chosen to be housed at the think tank, and they were all hiding for their lives.

Some of them, the ones who were married and had families, actually lived outside of the main building on the grounds, in small bungalows. The single ones stayed on the basement level of the building itself; it was safer as it was actually a bunker, but it was less homelike. Several citizens were placed in WP, or witness protection each year, but the think tank was reserved for long term situations involving those with exceptional minds, or the very well known – people who would stand out by virtue of their intelligence or notoriety, and therefore could not be afforded an entirely safe existence out in the general population – they were too notable. Some of their residents came to them harboring secrets with national security implications, and many of the rest of them, even if they didn't have that kind of background, did after working there a year or two.

The 'brains,' as Joe secretly called them, worked for their keep by putting their formidable minds to bear on high security government projects. None of them complained about the work; in fact, most seemed to enjoy it – it was stimulating and kept them occupied. That didn't mean they wouldn't leave in an instant, if they got the chance. Most of them, anyway - some of them had become so accustomed to life there, had been there for so long, that Joe wondered if they would go when they were told it was safe. He could usually tell which ones wanted to get out, and which ones didn't. With Dr. Eppes, he wasn't quite sure.

The professor had been with them for four years and seven months; he'd come to them two years after Joe had started there, himself, in June of 2009. The professor had stayed in the infirmary for the first two weeks, recuperating from a gunshot wound before they'd assigned him a room. He'd looked lost; shell-shocked, and was so much younger than many of the rest of the academic group, looked so much more hip with his long dark curly hair that he stood out in the crowd. Joe knew quite a bit about him – he knew a lot about all of the residents there, because he handled their phone calls.

Every two weeks, give or take a day or two so that the day of the week was random, the residents were allowed a single phone call home. The lines were scrambled, and a different cell phone was used each time, routed through a unique series of secure nodes placed across the continental U.S., so that if the recipient's phone was being tapped the calls could not be traced back to their secret location. The residents were allowed to pick from a list of cleared numbers, and Joe had to remain with them during the call, to monitor it. He'd gotten to know a lot about all the residents that way, and today he knew that Dr. Eppes was probably going to call either his father or his brother.

"Who is it this time?" he asked pleasantly.

"It's my dad's turn," said Dr. Charles Eppes. He paced impatiently while Joe dialed the number. Joe set the phone on 'speaker,' and a ring tone floated out into the room, followed by another.

The professor had stopped his pacing in preparation for taking the phone, and Joe knew he would remain frozen in place until it was answered, and take the receiver from him with a sigh of relief as they heard the voice on the other end. Usually, the residents set up some kind of cadence or schedule with the people they called most, so the person knew they would be contacted and the day they would get the call. Most of the recipients were as eager to get the call as the resident was to call them, and they made arrangements to be near the phone that day, but still, sometimes it happened that the recipient of the call wasn't home. As the phone rang for a third time, Joe could see the disappointment in the professor's face. It was unusual; his father was nearly always home when it was his turn, although Joe had to admit as the years had worn on, and this year in particular, Alan Eppes had started to miss on the rare occasion. Dr. Eppes' brother was even more unpredictable; he was an FBI agent and was married, with a young daughter - he could not always control the circumstances. He had missed about twice a year the last three years, each time called away on a case except for once, when he was at the hospital for the birth of his daughter.

On rare occasions, Dr. Eppes would call a colleague of his, a man named Lawrence Fleinhardt, but that was usually only twice per year; Dr. Eppes was too loath to give up contact with his immediate family, and apparently Dr. Fleinhardt could be hard to track down. When Dr. Eppes had first arrived, he'd made every other call, one a month, to a woman, a fellow mathematician named Amita Ramanujan. It had become clear to Joe after just two calls that Professor Eppes and Dr. Ramanujan were romantically involved and from the sound of it, engaged, and the calls usually ended in tears on her part, and sometimes on his. After a year or so, the calls had started to become less emotional, more strained, as the reality set in that Dr. Eppes might very well spend a good part of his life there. After just slightly over two years, Amita had informed him that she was moving to the East Coast, to teach and do research at MIT.

Joe still remembered the quiet agony on the professor's face as he told her that she was doing the right thing; and that furthermore, she should move on with her life, and forget him – who knew how long he would be there? That day, they officially ended their engagement, and Dr. Eppes had spent the next three days in his room with the lights out, nursing a bottle of whiskey that Joe had gotten for him. When he finally emerged, he said nothing to anyone about what had happened, just went silently about his work. He'd changed after that day, however; he'd become quieter, and there was something else different; an air about him – a muted sense of defeat, of desperation, of despair. After that, the phone calls to his father and brother seemed to grow in importance for him, as if he were afraid that if he didn't maintain a strong connection with them, they would fade away, too, pulled away by their busy outside lives. Fade away, and forget.

So it was that Joe saw and understood the hint of panic in the professor's face as the fourth ring sounded, and he hit the button to end the call. The residents were not allowed to leave messages, although they were allowed a second attempt, but only one, to another person on their list. "Your brother?" asked Joe, as he glanced at the number, and the professor licked dry lips and nodded.

Joe punched in the number, and this time, the phone was answered on the second ring. Don Eppes' voice floated out from the speaker as Joe handed the phone to Dr. Eppes, and he could see the flicker of relief tinged with desperation in the professor's face as he took the phone. "Don."

"_Oh – Charlie!"_ Don Eppes sounded surprised, and a little flustered. Joe could hear his young daughter crying in the background, his wife's voice, as she tried to soothe her. His wife's name was Robin, Joe knew; they'd gotten married about a year after Dr. Eppes had come to the think tank. Although Dr. Eppes understood that he had to listen to the conversations for security purposes, Joe turned away discreetly as Don continued. _"I thought it was Dad's turn this time."_

"I tried to call him – he wasn't home." Dr. Eppes voice was low, husky, and the knuckles of the hand gripping the phone were white.

"_Aw, Charlie, I'm sorry – he's probably on his way here. It's Charlotte's first dance recital – her Christmas show. We've got to be there in half an hour, and it takes almost that long to get there."_ His voice dropped conspiratorially. "_You ever try to put stage makeup on a three-year-old? I think Robin's about ready to lose her mind, here. Of course, I'll probably lose mine, by the end of this. You should see her though, she does look pretty cute." _The voice stopped suddenly, as if Don Eppes realized what he'd just said. "_We'll, uh, try to send a picture in your holiday package._"

"That would be good," said Charlie quietly. "Give her a kiss and wish her luck for me."

"_I'm not so sure she's the one who needs the luck_," commented Don dryly. "_Hey, Chuck, I'm really sorry we can't talk longer this week. Who you gonna call next time?"_

"Dad," came the quiet response. Charlie looked at Joe.

"Fifteen days," said Joe. "It's a Thursday."

"Fifteen days, Thursday," repeated Charlie. "Tell Dad and Robin I said 'hi.'"

"_Okay, yeah hon."_ That response was muted, and was obviously directed at Robin. Don's voice increased in volume again. "_Okay, sorry, Charlie, yeah, I will. Take care, okay, Buddy? We'll talk to you around the holidays, sometime. Next call's Dad, fifteen days from today, I got it_."

"Okay, bye." The phone clicked and went silent, and Joe fought back the urge to wince. Dr. Eppes just stared blankly at the receiver for a moment, and then looked at Joe. "I don't suppose there's any chance I could call Dr. Fleinhardt, is there?" The question was spoken without any real hope in his voice.

Joe shook his head, with a look of commiseration. "No, doctor, I'm sorry – you know the rules, only two attempts allowed at any one time. Better luck next time – at least you got to talk for a minute or two, huh?" He backed out of the room, as the professor nodded dispiritedly, and drifted with slumped shoulders toward his desk, his expression despondent, his eyes faraway. Joe had no doubt they were trained on a picture of another life, of another place, far from the concrete walls that surrounded them.

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Don Eppes hung up the phone and for a moment, just stared at it. Any call from Charlie elicited a jumble of emotions – regret, sadness, and loss, to be sure, but also frustration and anger. At least a bit of that frustration was directed at Charlie – his brother would never be in this situation if he hadn't taken on that assignment for the DEA. Don had argued about it with him then, had told him he was getting involved in an assignment that would put him at odds with the most dangerous drug cartel in North America. Charlie, as usual when an assignment had taken his interest, hadn't listened, and this was the result.

Robin's voice broke him out of his reverie. "Don, grab the camera, okay?"

He turned to see her leading Charlotte toward the front door, just as his father opened it and stuck his head inside. Alan beamed upon seeing his granddaughter, and knelt with open arms. "There's my angel! Don't you look beautiful! Give me a hug."

Don's gaze drifted subconsciously toward the phone – he knew his father would feel terrible about missing Charlie's call – almost as bad as Don had felt hanging up on him. He sighed, pasted a smile on his face and snagged the camera, as he followed them out the door.

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End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**WP**

**Chapter 2 - Free at Last**

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_March 28, 2014_

_A/N: Thanks all, for the reviews and alerts._

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Charlie sighed, straightened, rubbed his neck, and glanced up at the clock as Dr. Clark Simmons muttered, "Lost track of the time again. I think we missed dinner."

"Yeah," said Charlie. The clock read seven-ten; it looked down on the large open area filled with desks and computers where the residents spent most of their days. It was windowless, lit by overhead fluorescent lighting, and it was easy to lose track of time. He glanced back down at the computer screen in front of them, where he'd been standing, leaning over Clark's shoulder. "I think we're close."

Clark yawned. "Well, I've had enough for one day. I'm gonna go nuke my dinner. We can finish this up tomorrow. They don't need it for three weeks yet."

"Sure," said Charlie absently, still gazing at the screen, then roused himself, picked up his folders, and made for the hallway that led to his room, as Clark stretched, rose, and did the same, heading for his own room via a hallway in the opposite direction. "See you tomorrow."

Clark's grunted, "Good night," followed him out into the hallway, as Charlie trudged toward his room. Evenings were generally the worst, although he tried to keep his mind occupied by work on his own projects. In fact, he had two thick binders sitting on the desk in his room at that very moment – both completed – one entitled Cognitive Emergence Theory, and the other, Mathematical Modeling of Subatomic Particles with Associated Impact of Dimensional Significance. He had been working on his Cognitive Emergence theory for years, and his analysis of the behavior of subatomic particles, with a radical concept that involved relative size of bodies as a fifth dimension and could possible be a first step toward a Unified Theory, had been started shortly after he came to the Tank, as the residents called it. Each of them had the potential to be significant groundbreaking work – one of them alone, if successfully defended, would define a mathematical career as brilliant, and he planned to submit both, if he could conjure up the courage to do it.

The fact was, they had been reviewed by no one, not even his colleagues at the Tank.

They were too personal, somehow; too much was riding on them. Charlie was recognized among his peers at the Tank, and also among the echelons of the more secretive government agencies, but his life in the public eye had vanished when he'd gone into WP. He was no longer an active faculty member, although he'd been promised that his position as head of the Mathematics Department at Cal Sci would be there when he returned. That promise, however, was becoming more tenuous the longer he remained in hiding – the agreement was only good for seven years, and he had already been in WP for nearly five. His two papers, therefore, had assumed a monumental significance – they represented his one chance to achieve a lasting place in mathematical history. Like any other significant theories, in order to be recognized, they had to be submitted to the mathematical and scientific communities, and be evaluated, disassembled, poked, prodded, turned inside-out and reassembled, and then attempted to be proven or disproven before they would be accepted as legitimate.

When Charlie had been in the outside world, he'd had a better sense of how sound his theories were – how well they'd be accepted. Oh, in the Tank, he had access to the publications of others, he kept up on current events via computer, but he missed out on the forums, the meetings, the face-to-face discussions with colleagues, the rumors; the buzz. He hadn't realized how important that networking was, how much impact it had on his ability to determine where his research might stand. He thought his work was sound, in fact, he thought that both of his publications were significant, but it was hard to tell how they might be received. Perhaps his name had faded away to such a degree that they wouldn't even be noticed, wouldn't even be read. All of those thoughts had made him reluctant to take the final step, to submit them to the Intelligence Committee that governed any publications that came out of the residents of the Tank. The Intelligence Committee had oversight over any communications coming in and going out – firstly, for the safety of the residents there, and secondly, to make sure that none of the letters or published material contained classified information. Charlie was certain that neither of his publications would be an issue in either sense, and so he knew that once he sent them on to the Intelligence Committee, they would be approved to be sent out, and he would have no more excuses for delaying their publication.

He reached the door to his room, pressed his thumb against the recognition pad that read his thumbprint, and the door lock clicked open. He'd always thought that bit of security ridiculous; if a resident broke into another resident's room and stole something, where would they go, after all? The system had been the brainchild of a bored resident, years before Charlie had arrived, however, and it was easy enough to use, so no one bothered to complain. He left the door ajar, picked up his dinner tray, which had been left in the hallway, and carried it in, setting it on top the microwave for later. It was common practice there to deliver the meals of residents who failed to show up to the dining hall at the regular mealtimes. Then he stepped over to his desk, set his folders down, and picking up the two binders, turned and went out, shutting the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, he walked down the tiled hallway toward the elevator.

He took it to the third floor, and nodded at the guard stationed in the hallway as he got off the elevator. The floor was nearly empty at that time of night, but there was still a light on in the Intelligence office. Just his luck – he'd run out of a last feeble excuse. He knocked lightly; then pushed open the door. An attractive, slender woman of about forty looked up at him from her desk. "Dr. Eppes," she said, smiling. "What can I do for you?"

"Dr. Greene," Charlie said politely, inclining his head. "I have two works for publication and submission in the mathematical community. I need to have them reviewed and cleared by the Intelligence Committee." He stepped forward and placed them on her desk, fighting the urge to snatch them back and run out the door. "If they are cleared, there's a list attached of the institutions and individuals who should receive a copy."

She beamed at him. "That's wonderful, professor. You've been working on these for quite some time, haven't you?"

"Yes." Charlie's voice cracked a little, and he conjured a smile.

"Very well, we'll handle it, doctor, and I'll inform you when they pass the review."

Charlie nodded and backed out of the doorway with one last longing look at the binders on her desk, then closed the door. The moment of truth had arrived. He'd lost everything when he'd entered WP – his family, Amita, his freedom, his post at the university, his work with his brother at the FBI. All he had left was the chance to fulfill the destiny that had been set for him since he was small – and that destiny sat in the two documents on Dr. Greene's desk. Their success was more than just a matter of pride; deep down, in the dark recesses of his mind, lurked the fear that he didn't even consciously want to recognize - that their failure would take away his only remaining reason for living.

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Mike Jacobs, Director of the DEA, looked up from his desk, weariness chased from his face by the hurried entrance of four men, who were preceded only by a brief knock.

"Sorry for the interruption at this late hour, Director, but we have a situation," said his second-in-command, Assistant Director George Pembleton.

Pembleton was accompanied by three senior analysts, all of them specialists on the Mexican drug cartels who were wreaking havoc in Mexico, generating violence that was spilling over U.S. borders. "That's okay," said Jacobs, "what's up?" He moved from behind his desk as he spoke, heading toward a large table, where the group convened.

"Molina's dead," said Pembleton abruptly, without preamble, as they sat. "Members of the Espino cartel assaulted his estate tonight outside Monterrey, shortly after dark. It was all-out warfare and there were several casualties, including Oscar Molina's brother Raul, other family members, and his closest lieutenants. The whole head of his cartel was lopped off, in one hit. They're gone – after ten years of us trying to take Oscar Molina down, he was finished off by Espino."

Jacobs grimaced. In a sense, it was good news – they'd had a decent shot at putting away Molina about five years ago, until he'd left the U.S. and taken up residence in Mexico. They had continued to work on the case since, but their attempts had been confounded by corruption in the Mexican government, who ultimately refused to prosecute. Their case had been based largely on work done by a consultant, a Dr. Charles Eppes, who had nearly been killed in a hit by Molina's men. Eppes had been in WP ever since, waiting for the day that they managed to convince the Mexican government to make a joint case against the powerful Molina. In the last year or so, Molina's authority had been challenged by other cartels like the Espinos, but the DEA was still as far from eliminating him as ever – until now. "So where does that put us?"

Pembleton shook his head. "Nowhere good, really. I mean, it's great that Molina's out of the picture, but this just means that the Espino clan got much more powerful – they will in essence take his place. It really does no good for anyone."

That wasn't true, Jacobs thought to himself. The downfall of the Molina cartel did help one person. Charles Eppes didn't know it yet, but he'd just regained his freedom.

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_Friday, April 11, 2014_

It took only two weeks to finalize the move arrangements and do a final debriefing for the projects he'd been handling, and today, Friday, Charlie was being flown back to Los Angeles. He clutched his computer case to his chest, standing frozen in the busy airport as people swirled around him. It was too much – after the quiet, sunless existence at the Tank, the outside world was overwhelming – too much light, too much movement, too much noise. Charlie's breath hitched, and he could feel an unreasonable panic clawing its way up his insides. There were far too many people here – people who were unaccounted for, people who might have guns, people who might step out of the crowd at any moment and shoot…

"Are you all right, doctor?" asked the man next to him. He was an aide who worked at the Tank – it wasn't unusual that the residents had a hard time adjusting to the outside, and an aide was always assigned to see that they got on the plane without incident.

Charlie blinked, and then swallowed and tried to calm his breathing. He hadn't had panic attacks after the shooting – why now? '_Ridiculous_,' he told himself. '_You're safe now, Molina is gone.'_ The aide was still looking at him oddly, and Charlie wondered for a moment if he'd said that aloud. He cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he said, in a shaky voice that belied the words. "I just need to sit somewhere quiet."

The aide got them access to a private lounge, and then went in search of earplugs. Charlie spent the rest of the trip with bits of orange foam in his ears to block out the cacophony of noise around him, trying to fight down a spiraling sense of anxiety. He felt rudderless, anchorless, as though he were free-falling.

After he was in the air, he pulled a photograph out of his pocket with shaking hands – a picture of Charlotte as a baby, with Don, Robin, and Alan, taken about two months after she was born, and then another one of Charlotte alone, taken about a year later and sent with his holiday package, which always arrived somewhere during the end of December. Although his family had Jewish roots, they hadn't practiced their faith when he was young, and their holiday celebration had been a hodgepodge of Hanukkah and Christmas customs – and the more secular ones at that. Don, although he'd begun renewing his Jewish faith in the year before Charlie left, seemed to be going the same route – embracing a mixture of Jewish and Christian customs. Some of that, Charlie supposed, was a nod to Robin's preference for Christmas.

As a result, Charlotte's more recent picture was a bit conflicted from a holiday standpoint; she was wearing a Christmas dress and holding a dreidel. They were the only pictures he had of her – the residents were only allowed packages once per year, in December, and this picture was over a year old. Charlotte's pictures had not come back from the photographer in time to make Charlie's package the last time, and in the rush to get the package out, Alan hadn't thought to include any snapshots.

Charlie wasn't even sure he'd recognize her – in that time, she'd gone from baby to toddler, and was now over three years old. He felt a connection to her; she was his namesake – Robin had suggested the name, and Don had agreed, even thought it was at odds with Jewish custom of not naming a child after a living relative. Charlie felt almost unbearable excitement at the thought of seeing her for the first time, of seeing Don and his father and Robin again, and almost unbearable fear, along with it.

Three hours on a jet was enough reflection time for him to realize the source of that fear – that he would land in Los Angles to find that time had passed him by – that he was someone who no longer belonged there, who no longer fit.

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End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**WP**

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all. They are very much appreciated._

**Chapter 3 - Homecoming**

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Friday, April 11, 2014_

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Don stood silently at the airport concourse exit as Robin juggled Charlotte on her hip, and Alan paced with barely concealed excitement. Don was excited too, or so he told himself – hell, yeah, he was excited, but there were other emotions, too, and they were getting in the way. He couldn't shake a sense of anxiety; he wasn't quite sure why it was there, but it was, along with a feeling of underlying irritation. If he'd thought deep and hard, he might have recognized that part of the reason was fear. He and Charlie had never been close when they were younger, but in the years before Charlie left, they had started to create a relationship, of sorts. He was afraid, deep inside; that Charlie might return, only for them to find that the tenuous connection that they'd built before he'd been taken away had been permanently severed by time and distance. That fear wasn't even something that he consciously recognized; it was rooted in his subconscious, buried, along with resentment and anger over being abandoned in the first place. They were feelings he would never admit to himself; nonetheless they were there, and were feeding the anxiety that he felt now. Added to that was the fact that he'd never dealt with fear very well, and his first reaction to any unsettling emotion was anger - to get annoyed that something was trying to intrude on his self-imposed need for control. As it was, however, the reasons escaped him, as did a good description of the feelings themselves. He just knew he should be happy that Charlie was coming back, so he was trying his damnedest to be happy, and it wasn't working all that well.

There was a decorative glass panel set into the wall next to him, and he glanced at it idly as he turned, catching his own reflection. He'd put on a few pounds in five years – not many, about one for each year, and they were evenly spread on his frame. He'd kept himself in reasonably good shape, in spite of the fact that he didn't go into the field as often as he used to, now that he was Regional Assistant Director, in charge of not only the L.A. office, but San Diego and Las Vegas as well. Robin thought he actually looked better with a little more weight, which was a good thing, because at forty-four, it didn't seem to want to come off as easily as it did. He had to admit with pride that in spite of the added weight, he still had no gut and a full head of dark hair – oh, the lines around his eyes were a little deeper, the ones that crinkled when he smiled, but generally, he didn't figure he had changed much. As he turned back toward the concourse exit, he caught his breath. He could see a familiar figure – almost painfully familiar – making his way toward the exit.

If he hadn't changed much, Charlie hardly appeared to have changed at all. He'd always had a rounder youthful-looking face, and he still had a head-full of dark curls – not quite as long as when he was younger, but enough to frame his face. He seemed to have lost the five pounds that Don had gained; that appeared to be the only difference - as he drew closer, it was apparent that there didn't seem to be any other signs of aging. No lines, no gray hair. Charlie, at thirty-nine, could easily pass for twenty-nine. Only his eyes looked different, filled with a somberness that hadn't been there before. Somberness, and anxiety; Charlie kept glancing sideways, especially when another traveler walking alongside got too close. He looked rattled, ill at ease, spooked, and Don exchanged a glance with Robin. She saw it too, although it appeared that Alan hadn't noticed; he was beaming, his arms outstretched, as Charlie came through the turnstile.

"Charlie." Alan's voice was thick with emotion, and he stepped forward to embrace Charlie as if he'd never let go. Charlie appeared just as emotional – he said nothing, and lowered his face and closed his eyes as he clung tightly back. Robin stood there smiling, and Charlotte stared at the stranger hugging her grandfather, her big brown eyes wide. After a moment, Alan released him, and Don stepped forward, with what he hoped was a welcoming grin. "Hey there, buddy. Welcome back."

Charlie looked up at him with an expression that defied description – gratitude and love, sorrow and regret, anxiety and trepidation – and said, "Thanks." He stood there tentatively, unsure of his welcome, and Don took one stride forward and hugged him, hard. It was both heartfelt and awkward, and they separated quickly, but Don could see Charlie's shoulders relax just a bit. Charlie took a breath, looked toward Robin and Charlotte, and seemed to muster enough courage to step forward and give Robin a quick kiss on the cheek. "Congratulations," he said softly, "- belated."

"Thanks. Welcome back, Charlie," she murmured with a smile, and then turned Charlotte to face him. Two pairs of big dark eyes took each other in, topped by two heads full of dark curls. "Charlie, this is Charlotte." Robin's voice lightened as she spoke directly, a bit too cheerfully, to Charlotte. "Charlotte, this is Uncle Charlie."

Alan chuckled. "She's the spitting image of you at that age – although fortunately, it looks like she'll inherit Robin's nose."

Charlie still looked uncertain, tense, and Don tried to lighten the mood. He grinned broadly. "That's the truth – if you hadn't already been gone for two years before she was born, Chuck, people would have talked."

Robin and Alan laughed and Charlie flushed and looked at him uncertainly, but he grinned a little too, and looked back at Charlotte. He set his computer bag down and looked at Robin. "Can I hold her?"

"Sure," said Robin, smiling, and began to pry two chubby little arms from her shoulders. Charlotte, realizing that she was about to be handed over to the stranger, suddenly tensed and wailed, grabbing desperately for Robin, and Charlie's face fell.

Robin was vainly trying to untangle herself from her daughter, and she gasped, "I'm sorry – she's at the age where she gets a little funny with people she doesn't know -,"

"It's okay," said Charlie, a bit too quickly. A veil seemed to come down over his face, and he stepped back, and picked up his bag. "Don't upset her."

Robin relaxed, and Charlotte's arms crept back around her neck as she tucked her head on Robin's shoulder. She turned her little face, however, in order to keep a wary eye on the source of her discomfort. Charlie stood there awkwardly, with an almost stricken look on his face, and Robin looked at him apologetically. "She'll get over it, don't worry. Once she's around you a few times, she'll be fine."

Don stepped forward and dropped a casual hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Come on, buddy, let's go get your luggage."

He could feel the tension vibrating through Charlie's body, and his younger brother looked up at him with a strange look in his eyes, a look of anxiety, of fear, of need for reassurance. If Don had a grip on his own emotional state, he would have recognized the look – deep inside, he felt the same way himself.

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Charlie braced himself as Don pulled the SUV out of the airport parking lot and swung onto the road that would lead to the entrance for the highway. He had ridden in the back of a windowless van to the private airport that morning; and from there had taken a small jet to the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta. Even the residents of the Tank had no idea where they were, and Charlie's journey had given him few clues. The private airport was unmarked and in a rural area, although from the flying time to Atlanta, Charlie figured that he'd spent the last nearly five years somewhere in the eastern half of the United States. He'd forgotten the sensation of driving in traffic; the speed, the motion - not only of Don's vehicle but also of the vehicles around them, and he fought down a sense of panic. He'd been barraged by noise, movement, people, since he'd left that morning, and his nerves were frayed. In spite of Don's smooth maneuvering, he flinched as they merged onto the highway, pulling right up next to a big tractor-trailer in the other lane.

He could sense Don's glance; the look of speculation, and he straightened in his seat, trying to compose himself. He was sitting in the front passenger seat – Charlotte's car seat was in the rear seat, and her lower lip had begun to quiver as Charlie had opened the rear door and looked in at her, so Robin had stepped in smoothly, suggesting that she and Alan ride in the back. "After all," she said, "Charlie would probably like a view out of the front – it's been awhile since he's seen L.A."

Truthfully, the sight of L.A. hurtling at him down the highway was almost too much, and Charlie had to remind himself to breathe as he gripped the armrest. After years of quiet and solitude in the think tank, the real world was overload; his senses were overwhelmed. An undefined sense of terror lurked, ready to spring to the forefront in an all-out panic attack, and it took nearly everything he had to control it. His worst fears were being realized, his subconscious whispered. He didn't belong in this world anymore, this world of frenetic activity, of noise and light and motion, of people with purpose. Even his own niece wanted no part of him. He was an alien; he didn't belong…

"…whole complex is new," Don was saying, and with a start, Charlie realized that his brother had been speaking to him, gesturing to a collection of brand new buildings off to the one side of the highway. He turned to look at him, and Don glanced his way, his eyes narrowing before he swung his gaze back to the highway, but he continued speaking as if nothing was wrong. "It's pretty nice – maybe we can take a run down there some day."

"Right." Charlie cleared his throat, and looked at the complex as it whizzed by, clueless as to what it was and why they would go there. "That would be good."

"We hope you didn't make plans yet for tomorrow," came Robin's voice from behind him. "Don and I were going to have a little 'welcome-back' cookout at our house. Nothing too big – Larry, people from the L.A. office – you remember, David, Colby, Nikki, and Liz, of course, and a few others."

Charlie's heart sank; he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole for a few days to recuperate – preferably the garage of the Craftsman, but he said, "Tomorrow's uh -,"

"Saturday," prompted Alan.

"Uh, yeah, right. Tomorrow's great." Charlie flinched yet again as a Bugatti zoomed up alongside, keeping pace for a moment, then abruptly accelerated again and swerved into the lane in front of them. He swallowed and tried to relax, silently clutching the armrest all the way to the Craftsman.

Don saw them inside while Robin waited in the SUV with Charlotte. Don set down Charlie's suitcase and then rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly. "Well, uh, I need to get into the office for a few hours – I'm going to drop Robin and Charlotte off on the way. Welcome, back, Chuck." He looked at Charlie, uncomfortably, and as if apologizing for the awkwardness, said, "We'll get a chance to celebrate tomorrow, okay?" He forced a smile, and Charlie's heart contracted painfully. Even forced, the smile, the way his brother's eyes crinkled at the corners, reminded him of happier days, and Charlie tried to fight down the rising conviction that those days were gone, never to return.

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Charlotte had fallen asleep in her car seat, and Robin had moved up into the passenger seat by the time Don got back out to the SUV. He slid behind the wheel with a sigh, and started the engine. Robin eyed him, sympathetically. "I'm sure it's a bit of a shock for him," she said. "We really have no idea of what his life was like – I'm sure it will take a little readjustment."

Don said nothing, just shook his head, as he pulled the SUV out onto the street, and Robin backpedaled a bit, wondering if she'd just made it sound worse than it was. "I mean, he wasn't _too_ bad – he just seemed a little withdrawn, a little anxious -,"

That got a reaction; Don looked at her incredulously. "Not too bad? He seemed whacked out. He was on another planet. I went to hug him, and it was like hugging a two by four – he couldn't have been any stiffer. You'd think he'd be a little happier to see us, after five years."

"Okay, he was a little distant," Robin admitted. "But I think he was just nervous. Give him time to get acclimated; I'm sure he'll open up. The party tomorrow should help."

Don sighed and shook his head again. "Yeah, I hope so," he muttered.

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Charlie stared at the front door for several seconds after it shut, filled with the crazy half-hope that his brother would come through it again. For what, he didn't know, but he hated the thought of him leaving, even as awkward as things had seemed. It made him feel abandoned, with the sense of panic a three-year old might feel at a parent's departure – the panic generated by the suspicion that the departing family member might not return. It was unreasonable, Charlie knew, and he shook it off as he turned to face his home.

At least, he had thought it was his home. The layout was right, and there were a few pieces that he recognized; the grandfather clock, some of the cabinets – but the sofas, chairs and tables had all changed. The comfortable room now bore a designer touch and an air of British India – leather and rattan, carved wood stained a deep mahogany color, set off by greens and golds of the leather and other accents. Potted cat palms stood near the window, completing the picture. It was subtle, tasteful, and inviting - and definitely not home.

"Do you like it?" Alan asked anxiously. "Joanie helped me pick it out."

Joanie. The name bore a sudden new level of significance. Charlie remembered her name from his monthly conversations with his father, and had – apparently incorrectly – surmised that they had a comfortable friendship. She ran a real estate company, he remembered. Obviously, the relationship was a bit more serious than he thought. That suspicion was verified when Alan continued, flushing a bit. "We, uh, well, Joanie's been staying here, quite a bit. When I found out you were coming home, we talked last week. She found a place, a nice little condo just a little east of here. I kept the old furniture – if you don't like this set, we'll be more than happy to move it there, and put the other furniture back in." He flushed even more deeply, and said, "I might as well tell you. I was waiting for the proper time, but I suppose there really isn't one, in a situation like this. I proposed to her last week – we're engaged. Kind of foolish perhaps, for two old people, but, well, there it is."

He paused, waiting, and Charlie looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since he'd arrived. His father hadn't seemed to have aged much in five years, but as Charlie gazed at him, he could see a bit of a stoop in Alan's posture, he had a bit less hair, and it was grayer, there were a few more lines. The strange panicked feeling peaked, but then oddly, began to recede, replaced by something Charlie couldn't put his finger on. With a strength of will he hadn't known he possessed, he pushed it all down inside, stuffed it back in his mind somewhere, put it away like his old furniture, which was probably gathering dust in the attic – set aside, displaced, replaced…

He stepped forward and gave his father a hug. "It's not foolish at all, Dad," he said quietly, extending the embrace so he wouldn't have to look into his eyes while he spoke. "I'm glad for you. I can't wait to meet her."

Alan's grip tightened; Charlie could feel the emotion in it, hear his father's sigh of relief, and they parted. Alan smiled at him, gratefully. "Thank you, son. I know you'll like her. It's high time I got out of your hair, or your house, anyway."

Charlie shrugged and looked away. "You were never in my hair." He looked back at him. "But I'm glad you found someone who makes you happy. You deserve it." The words came out, calmly and sincerely, and Charlie wondered vaguely what possessed him, who the stranger was who spoke so rationally. "I think I'll head up and get unpacked."

"All right," said Alan, as he turned toward the kitchen, gratitude still resonating in his voice. "I'm going to rustle up something for dinner."

His bedroom, at least, was unchanged. Charlie stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle of his suitcase. The papers he had left on his desk the night of the shooting had been stacked in a neat pile; the furniture dusted, the bedding newly laundered. It was an island of normalcy in a sea of change, but instead of a feeling of comfort, Charlie could feel the panic bubbling inside again, along with a rising feeling of despair. Apart from this room, nothing was the same. Both Don and his father had moved on with their lives – lives that no longer included him. As soon as he had the thought, however, he shook himself. There was still hope for a future – he had the papers he had submitted, his position at Cal Sci, and once he got himself established, he could perhaps even begin to collaborate with Don – or at least with the L.A. FBI office. He clutched at the hopes like a drowning man clutches a life preserver, and taking a deep breath; he rolled his suitcase into the room and began to unpack.

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End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**WP**

_A/N: Thanks to all for your reviews, I read and appreciate every one._

**Chapter 4 –** **Size Matters**

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

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_Saturday, April 12, 2014, morning_

Amita Ramanujan stirred and stretched, and blinked at the spring sunshine streaming into her Boston apartment. Normally, she reveled in Saturday mornings, lying in bed late next to her boyfriend, Jim MacDonald. She glanced sideways at him, he was still asleep, turned on his side, and ordinarily she would move in closer and cuddle with him, perhaps ruffle his sandy hair. This morning, however, was different, and she wasn't entirely sure why.

Well, that wasn't quite true. She did know why – it had to do with the phone call she'd gotten from Larry Fleinhardt last evening, his voice brimming with exuberance as he let her know that he'd just found out that Charlie Eppes was coming home. In fact, Larry had informed her, Charlie had arrived in L.A. that very evening; and Larry would see him the next day. She took the news with a polite, '_That's great_!' and asked Larry to tell him hello for her. At Larry's good-bye, she'd hung up, and then plunked down in the nearest chair, where she'd sat for a good ten minutes before shaking herself. Charlie Eppes had nothing to do with her any longer, or her with him. She'd moved on, she was in a serious relationship, she told herself. She felt nothing other than a warm wish for the well-being of a good friend and colleague.

Now, this morning, her eyes drifted again to Jim's sleeping form. He was a physics professor at MIT, and they'd clicked the moment they met. At first, the relationship was simply a solid friendship – after ending her relationship with Charlie, she wasn't up for anything more - but Jim had decided after several months of friendship that more was precisely what he wanted. Amita had resisted at first, why, she wasn't certain – he was bright, good-looking, kind – the perfect man, really. Finally, he'd won her over, and they had begun dating. Recently, he'd been hinting at marriage, trying to draw her into a serious discussion, a discussion she kept dodging, without a clear understanding of why she was doing it.

She stared at the back of his head, her eyes on his spiky sandy hair, but in her mind, all she could see was a head full of dark, tousled curls.

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Charlie stopped in to see Dean Wilson the first thing Saturday morning.

When he arose that morning, Charlie found that Alan had gone to the store; his father had left a note, which Charlie discovered as he trudged into the kitchen in search of coffee. He stood there, inhaling the familiar sight and scent of the kitchen, and just for an instant, was transported back in time. Wisps of long submerged memories floated through his mind, remnants of a former life, a life that had been disrupted, derailed.

He got a cup of coffee and checked his email, looking for any sign of a response to his cognitive emergence and dimensional theory papers. They had been approved for release over a week ago, and the recipients should have had several days by now to examine them. There was nothing, and nothing in the delivered mail either; and he felt anxiety start to simmer in his gut again. Granted, it had only been a week, not long enough to analyze his theories with any depth, but he would have thought that there would be something – some kind of acknowledgement that the papers were out there, and were being read. Was it possible that his worst fears were being realized – that he had been forgotten, and no one cared enough to read his work? His sip of coffee stuck in his throat, and he swallowed hard and stared at the screen.

They had given him a new, clean laptop when he had left the think tank, and confiscated his old one. It was protocol, apparently; they wanted to be sure that a departing person would not leave, inadvertently or otherwise, with confidential information on their computers. His new laptop was sleek and fast, but it was empty; the only email was junk. He had to modify his filters, he thought absently, still trying to fight down the unsettling feeling that his papers were being ignored. After a quick phone call, he gathered up a copy of each paper, grabbed his car keys, and headed for his Prius.

Behind the wheel, he hesitated. His driver's license had expired and he'd had a hard time just sitting on the passenger side of Don's SUV the day before, but campus wasn't far, and he had to get to there – he had told the Dean he would be there at nine, and Alan still wasn't home. He would have to take a chance, and drive himself, legal or not. He turned the keys in the ignition, and noted with gratitude that it started immediately – Alan had apparently kept it maintained while he was gone. With a twinge of relief, he found that driving was something that came back easily, although he drove slowly, white-knuckled, all the way there. As the campus pulled into view, he caught his breath, and once he got the Prius safely into a parking spot, he just sat there for a moment, trying to control the tears that suddenly stung his eyes. Cal Sci, of all places, was home. Thank God, he at least had that.

It was Saturday, but the Dean was traditionally on campus on Saturday mornings, and Charlie had called ahead, just to be sure. He'd never met the man in person; Dean Mackenzie Wilson had come into the position about a year after Charlie had gone into witness protection. Charlie had heard about the change through Amita, so he had asked the authorities at the Tank for an extra phone call to discuss his position, and due to the circumstances, it had been allowed. Dean Wilson had assured him then, four years ago, that he would honor the agreement that had been previously set – namely, that Charlie would be granted his position as head of the mathematics department upon his return. As Charlie stepped into the Dean's office, however, he sensed immediately that something was wrong.

Clutching the copies of the papers to his chest, he stepped forward and extended his hand. "Charles Eppes," he said, and the Dean rose and shook his hand.

"Good to meet you, professor," said Wilson. He lips were smiling, but his eyes were cool, professional. Not unpleasant, but not welcoming either. Charlie got the impression that it was an expression reserved for people who didn't matter – Wilson could have been greeting the janitor. "How can I help you?"

Charlie was stunned into a second of silence by the question. The mere fact that the man asked it implied that he didn't grasp the situation. He pulled himself together, and sat in the chair in front of the desk as Wilson seated himself. "Well, obviously, my presence would indicate that I'm out of witness protection," Charlie said. A trace of sarcasm laced his words; he couldn't help it. "I've come to discuss my return to campus."

Wilson pursed his lips and tented his fingers in front of them. "Ah, yes," he said, after a brief pause. "I seem to remember an agreement." He bent and pulled open a lower file drawer, riffled through it, then selected a document, which he placed on his desk and proceeded to read, frowning as he did so. "I'll have to discuss this with the trustees."

Charlie could feel real alarm now, thick in the back of his throat, but he tried to speak calmly. "What's to discuss? The agreement guaranteed that I would be placed back in my position upon my return, provided the absence was less than seven years. I understand that it's near the end of the semester and I won't be teaching right away, but I can assume administrative and research responsibilities immediately."

Wilson's smile had faded, and he raised an eyebrow. The expression was supercilious; condescending, and so was his tone when he replied. "Five years is a long time, professor, and the contract specifies that the decision be reviewed and renewed every three years. I don't recall that we held a review, which would make this agreement, if not void, at least questionable. In addition, Dr. Paul Samuels has been holding that position since you left. It has been on a temporary basis, but based on his performance – and your continued absence - the trustees and I had decided to offer it to him on a permanent basis. We were going to speak to him this week, in fact. I would suggest that you submit a formal request for the position, with your resume, and I will review it with President James. Even if you don't come back as department head, we may be able to offer you a teaching position."

Charlie could feel fear and anger spiraling inside him, and he tamped them down with an effort, and rose slowly, his eyes flashing. "I understand that you don't know me, Dean," he said tightly. "The president of the university and the trustees do, however. As for a resume, why don't you take a look at these?" He stepped forward and slapped his papers on the desk, and with a curt nod, turned and walked out, his head held high.

He made it out into the hallway and around the corner into the men's room before his composure vanished. Thankfully, the restroom was deserted, and he leaned back against the cool tile wall, his legs shaking. Had people really forgotten him, what he could do? Then another thought occurred to him – one that was far worse. What if they hadn't forgotten what he could do – what if he simply couldn't do it anymore? His cognitive emergence work, his dimensional theory – perhaps they weren't everything that he thought they were. It could be that they were flawed, and that was why no one had bothered to contact him. The lack of contact could simply be a polite, embarrassed silence.

He leaned against the wall for a good five minutes before he managed to make his feet move. There was still one more thing he could do, to salvage a bit of what was left of his life, and he'd always felt secretly it had been his true calling – his work with the FBI. He could always spend his time consulting – Don was in charge of three offices now, not just one; surely there would be enough cases to keep him busy. His head still reeling, his mind occupied by that one last hope, he made his way down the quiet hallway, and somehow managed to drive home.

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_Saturday, April 12, 2014, afternoon_

Professor Larry Fleinhardt stepped into the university president's home study with raised eyebrows, and looked at its owner, Matthew James. He'd been to James' house before, but not frequently, and the president's urgent request was definitely unusual. James was sitting behind his desk, and Dean Mackenzie Wilson was seated across from him in one of a trio of leather armchairs. Larry inclined his head politely, as James rose from his seat. "President James," said Larry by way of greeting, as he stepped forward. "Dean Wilson."

James didn't come out from behind his desk, but he did extend a hand as Larry came forward. "Professor Fleinhardt, thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, take a seat."

Larry shook his hand and sat, noting that Dean Wilson hadn't risen to greet him, in fact, he had a decidedly sour expression on his face. Of course, ever since Larry had returned to Cal Sci over two years ago from a self-imposed sabbatical and first met Dean Wilson, he had to admit, they hadn't sustained cordial relations. There wasn't time to ponder that, however; James was handing Larry two thick documents, and Larry took them, as the president said, "We were wondering if you could take a quick look at those for us. I know that you're familiar with Dr. Eppes' work…,"

His words were lost for a moment as Larry looked down and caught the title of the top document, entitled _Cognitive Emergence Theory_, and underneath it the name of Charles Eppes. His heart skipped a beat; his close friend and colleague had been working on Cognitive Emergence for years – could it be that he had finally released it? He looked up. "Where did you get this? Is Charles preparing to publish?"

"It appears that he already has," said James, as he took his seat again. "I was frankly surprised that we hadn't gotten notification, but when I made some inquiries I found that we _are_ on the list – there was just some bureaucratic red tape that has caused a delay. Copies went out yesterday to a listing specified by Dr. Eppes, and the intended recipients should start receiving them tomorrow and the next day. These copies were personally delivered to Dean Wilson by Dr. Eppes himself this morning."

At the words, 'these copies,' Larry realized that he hadn't looked at the second document, and he did so, a thrill running through him, as he read, _Mathematical Modeling of Subatomic Particles with Associated Impact of Dimensional Significance. _His eyebrows rose, and he felt his heart quicken with excitement. "Oh, my," he murmured, as he began to flip the pages, scanning through them. "Is this what I think it is?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell us," said James, as he glanced at Wilson. "That topic, in particular, is right up your alley. I know there is much to digest there, but we were wondering if you could take an hour or so to quickly scan through the contents of those papers, and tell us if they have any potential merit."

Larry tore his eyes from the page open in front of him. "Any potential merit! This _is_ Dr. Charles Eppes we as speaking of, here. Charles would never publish something that he wasn't certain was sound. The mathematical community has been waiting for his Cognitive Emergence conclusions for years, and this - ," he picked up the dimensional theory paper and waved it, his voice rising, "- if this is what I think it is, it will have a huge impact on the world of mathematics and physics. Ever since Einstein, physicists have been searching for a unified theory – something that links quantum physics to gravitational theory. This could well represent the first step toward developing the math needed to explain that link. If that is so – this is beyond huge, gentlemen. Scores of the greatest minds have been pursing this for years."

Wilson finally spoke, his voice heavy with skepticism. "Exactly – precisely why I find it hard to believe that the work there is valid. It would be unheard of to come out with two works of such significance, at the same time…"

He let his voice trail off purposely, conveying his doubt, and Larry frowned. James was emanating suppressed excitement about the find, but Wilson almost seemed as though he were willing it to fail. James' next statement clarified the situation.

The president sent a challenging, direct glance Wilson's way, as he said, "Dean Wilson has a quandary on his hands. He apparently had convinced the trustees to name his protégé, Dr. Paul Samuels, as head of the mathematics department, and this morning, Dr. Eppes showed up, requesting that we honor the agreement we made to reinstatement him when he became available."

Larry's eyes widened in disbelief as he turned his gaze on Wilson; who was scowling and shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "How could you not honor that agreement?" His voice rose indignantly, and he began to turn a decided shade of red. "Aside from the ethics of the matter, are you crazy?!" He put out his hands; palms up at either side as if he were weighing something, and waved his left hand, sarcasm filling his voice. "Let me see, on one hand, we have Paul Samuels, a great politician, to be sure, but moderately talented when it comes to mathematics, at best." He waved his right hand. "On the other, we have Dr. Charles Eppes, one of the greatest mathematicians on the planet, and, if these works are any indication, poised for further greatness, and acclaim that would put our university on the map!" He fixed a glare on Dean Wilson. "I can't imagine why there is any question, here!"

Matthew James stifled a grin. "Very well, Professor Fleinhardt, please, calm down. I have no doubt that Dean Wilson will come to the same conclusion as you have once we establish the worth of those papers. If you would, please look them over for an hour or two, or as long as you need to establish that Dr. Eppes' theories are at least reasonable. You may remain here, if you wish. Come on, Mack; let's retire to the patio while Dr. Fleinhardt peruses those papers."

Wilson was still scowling but he complied, and James smiled as he glanced at Fleinhardt on the way out. The professor already had his nose in the dimensional theory paper, completely captivated.

A half hour into it, Larry Fleinhardt sat up with an incredulous, slightly loopy smile and whispered, "Oh my, Charles." He shook his head, and chuckled. "Size matters." Still smiling in amazement, he read on, his smile broadening as he went.

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End, Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**WP**

**Chapter 5 – Into the Twilight**

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Saturday, April 12, 2014, late afternoon_

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"So, you look the same, Charlie, what's your secret?" Time hadn't dulled Nikki Betancourt's characteristic bluntness, and Charlie blinked as he realized that he was being addressed. The cookout at Don's house was in full swing, but his mind was on his papers. After returning from Cal Sci that morning, he had started to go through them again, feverishly looking for flaws. He'd worked non-stop; had been oblivious to his father's return – oblivious to anything in fact, until Alan had finally pulled him away to go to the cookout.

Now he tried regain his focus, as he turned toward Nikki. "Lack of sunlight," he replied truthfully, but Colby apparently thought he was being funny, and threw back his head, laughing. In fact, the whole group laughed harder when Charlie tried to explain. "No ultraviolet rays means no skin damage."

"Right, Charlie," said David Sinclair, still chuckling. He had his wife by his side, a quiet, pretty, pregnant woman named Ramona, and if anyone still looked the same, it was David, thought Charlie. Well, he'd added a faint wrinkle or two, but he was in a more stressful job – he had stepped into Don's shoes as SAC of the L.A. office when Don was promoted.

Colby Granger was accompanied by a thin leggy blonde named Sierra with a wholesome, freckled face, who ran a health food store. David teased him mercilessly about that – Colby had a penchant for doughnuts and chilidogs, and Sierra promoted more wholesome food, but he looked tanned, lean and fit, and more muscular than ever. Charlie suspected that Sierra might have more influence on Colby's diet than David was willing to admit – either that or David simply enjoyed teasing his team member and former partner.

Nikki, too, hadn't changed much. If anything, five years had softened her features, or perhaps her expression. Liz still was part of the team, but she wasn't able to make it that afternoon, David had explained - she had sent a '_hello, and welcome back'_ to Charlie, and a promise to stop by the Craftsman.

A thin man in his mid-forties with glasses and a moon-shaped face wandered up, and David pulled him into the group. "Charlie – here's someone you'll want to meet. This is Mike Stillman – he's our resident math consultant for the L.A. office. Don lined one up for each office after he was promoted; the Vegas and San Diego offices have consultants, too…"

His voice seemed to fade away; in fact everyone's voice did, including Mike Stillman's, as he shook Charlie's hand with a slightly sour expression, and said, "Nice to meet you, professor."

Charlie managed a response he hoped was appropriate, but his mind was still tumbling over David's words. Don had put in _math consultants_ – in each office. His brother had not only moved on in his personal life, but also in his professional one – Charlie had been replaced. He could feel his last hope for a piece of his old life slipping away, and he felt an odd, sliding sensation, a dizzying feeling of weightlessness. On its heels was nausea, and abruptly, he had to get away. "Excuse me," he mumbled, "I'm suddenly not feeling well," and he put his head down and headed for the bathroom in the hallway, leaving the others staring at his retreating back.

He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door; his ears were roaring, his head spinning, much like he'd felt after his interview with the Dean that morning. Now, like then, he stood there for a moment while it subsided, but unlike then, when he stood to leave, he no longer harbored any hope for the future. He pushed out through the bathroom door, walked slowly down the hallway, and stood there at the end of it. Laughter and the din of voices filled the house, assaulted his senses. Somehow, the animation of the group made him feel even more isolated. They had lives, relationships with each other, and he was an outsider. He didn't belong any longer. He hadn't realized it at the time, but his life hadn't been saved the day he was put into WP – it had been taken from him.

His eyes wandered across the room toward Don; he was surrounded by a group of neighbors and flanked by Robin, who was holding Charlotte on her hip. Don had welcomed him with a smile when he had gotten to the house, but Charlie could discern nothing more in his greeting than mere politeness. In fact, there had almost seemed to be an undercurrent of resentment in his demeanor; Charlie imagined that his return was disrupting Don's life. It was clear now; his brother had no need for him, either emotionally or professionally. He had his own friends, a family, a successful career, with no place in it any longer for Charlie.

Charlie closed his eyes briefly, as painful realization overwhelmed him. He'd given up Amita, the love of his life, years ago. There was no longer a need for him at the FBI, his papers - his life's work - were an apparent flop, and without them, he had no chance for a position at Cal Sci; in fact, he'd undoubtedly pissed off the Dean that morning. Even his father was engaged, and soon to move in with his fiancée, Joanie. She and Alan stood together across the room, conversing with Don and his group of neighbors. Joanie was attractive for her age, with dark neatly curled hair and tasteful clothing and jewelry. She and his father seemed very comfortable together – more comfortable than his father felt around him anymore, undoubtedly. All of them had moved on, leaving him behind.

He stood there for a moment, observing them – his former friends, his family – and the need to connect with them was like a physical ache, a yearning he'd felt for five years.

He'd harbored false hopes; it was now apparent that there was no chance of renewing those connections – they had been severed by time and distance. It hurt too much to contemplate; he suddenly knew he couldn't stand there and be faced with it anymore, so he slipped through an arched doorway into the living room, and let himself quietly out the front door.

Don and Robin had bought a house in a neat development on the outskirts of Burbank, which they had chosen for the school system. The late afternoon sun shone over the peaceful street and neighboring houses as he stepped outside and just stood for a moment. He felt uprooted, lost, and above all, an overwhelming need to get away. He couldn't go back inside – it was too painful to be faced with the reminders of what he'd once had. Numb with disappointment and a feeling of loss, he put his head down and began to walk, going nowhere in particular, going anywhere but there.

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"Mommy, juice?" asked Charlotte, her dark eyes wide with hope.

"Okay," said Robin. "Let's get your cup." She sidled next to Don and murmured, "I'll be back," and headed for the kitchen with Charlotte balanced comfortably on her hip.

His neighbor Pete had picked up the conversation, and Don tuned the group out for a minute and watched Robin go, with a smile. Damn, she had a sexy walk. They'd been trying for another baby, and her walk brought back a memory of that morning, in the bedroom… The group around him laughed, and he was pulled out of his reverie, but not quite back into the conversation. Instead, he glanced around the room. It was filled with people, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. His eyes traveled over the crowd, searching for Charlie. He'd left him to get reacquainted with the team from the L.A. office, and the last time he'd looked, which he had to admit was probably nearly a half hour ago, Charlie was talking, and the group seemed to be laughing at a joke he'd made. He'd felt relief at the sight; Charlie had seemed so…

He thought for a moment, trying to put a name on it. Distant, yes, but that wasn't all of it. Shell-shocked might be a little closer. He had to admit, he'd been hurt by Charlie's seeming aloofness, but Robin had pointed out that Charlie had come out of a relatively isolated environment, and had been thrust back out into the real world with little preparation. She noted that he seemed anxious, and Don had to admit, when he looked for it, he could see it – the tension in Charlie's body, the flicker of something akin to fear in his eyes. Fear of what, he couldn't imagine, but he was trying to be patient, although it was difficult. After all, Charlie had brought this on himself.

He broke off his musings as he realized that his eyes had yet to land on the object of his thoughts. Frowning a little, he scanned the family room and a visible portion of the dining area. No Charlie. He murmured an excuse and stepped away, intending to take a swing through the living room, but Robin had come back out of the kitchen, and was heading toward him. "Don," she said, as she drew closer, "you really should get the grill going. Everything else is ready."

"Yeah, okay." He shot an absent glance toward the entrance to the living room, and shrugged off his brother's absence. Charlie might just be in the bathroom for all he knew. He didn't have his license renewed yet, so he couldn't drive - Alan had brought him there. He had to be around somewhere.

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Larry Fleinhardt knocked on the door of Don Eppes' home, fidgeting with excitement, and when no one answered, he surmised that everyone was out back, and he headed for the side of the house. As he made his way along it, he could hear voices, and he hurried up to the gate that opened into the back yard, fenced off to prevent the wanderings of a certain toddler. He unlatched it and slipped in, a smile on his face, his eyes scanning the crowd. Don was dutifully working the grill, completely focused on flipping hamburgers, and Larry could see Robin strolling after Charlotte, who was trotting through the grass toward a small plastic slide. The L.A. FBI team was there – he saw Colby and David and their significant others, along with Nikki, Alan, Joanie, and a gaggle of neighbors and others he didn't know, but no Charlie.

Still bearing a huge grin, he stepped up to Don's side at the grill, just as Colby wandered over to take an appreciative sniff. "Hamburgers," Colby said, rolling his eyes. "Do you know how long it's been since I had one of those? I mean a real one, not a tofu burger." He caught sight of Larry, approaching, and he smiled with the recognition. "Hey, professor – I haven't seen you in a while. Almost as long as it's been since I had a burger."

He reached forward and pumped Larry's hand, and Larry smiled back, his blue eyes twinkling. "I'm sorry I'm late," he said, as Don turned and smiled in greeting. "I was called in to the Cal Sci president's office to consult on some published papers – some significant papers. May I ask – where is Charles?"

Don's grin contained a trace of humor. Larry hadn't even bothered to say hello; the professor's excitement was palpable. He glanced around the yard and through the glass doors that led to the kitchen – no Charlie. "You know, Larry, I don't know. I was looking for him myself; then I got busy with the grill."

Colby was frowning a bit, looking around. "Last time I saw him, he said he wasn't feeling too well, and he headed for the bathroom." At Don's look of concern, he added hastily. "I don't think he was in there long, though – I went to use it about ten minutes after that, and he wasn't there."

Don concern deepened slightly, and he made a mental note to ask Robin to check the bedroom to see if Charlie had gone to lie down, as soon as he could break himself away from the burgers long enough to speak to her. Maybe Robin was right, maybe this was all too much for Charlie, so soon – he could just be off by himself, regrouping. He began flipping again, and said lightly, "I'm sure he's around here somewhere, Larry. What's new?"

"Charles, apparently," said Larry. His badly concealed excitement spilled into his voice, and his grin broadened. "The papers I was reviewing this afternoon were his. He apparently spent the last five years fine-tuning his Cognitive Emergence work, and in addition, he published another paper of even greater significance on dimensional theory as a connecting factor between quantum particles and the forces of gravity. It's astounding – in fact, I predict it will create a global sensation in the mathematics and physics worlds. Of course, you probably already knew about it."

Colby's eyes had glazed over at Larry's explanation, and if the news hadn't intensified Don's already wounded feelings, he would have smiled. Instead, he felt a funny little odd contraction in his gut, as if he'd been punched. Charlie was keeping his distance; now his refusal to tell them about the papers was just another incidence, another bit of mortar in the wall that had confronted Don since his brother had stepped off the plane. He knew why, he thought morosely. Charlie didn't need him anymore; he'd moved on. Don had been meaning to talk to him about consulting again, about giving some direction to the three math consultants he'd contracted, maybe even working some of the bigger cases himself, but he already sensed that his request would be politely refused. Hell, Charlie hadn't even told him about the biggest accomplishment of his career – the publication of his life's work.

"Probably thinks I'm too dense to understand it," he grumbled to himself, flipping a burger savagely.

"What?" asked Colby, leaning closer in order to catch Don's muttering.

Don straightened abruptly and thrust the spatula at him, as David wandered up. "Would you mind manning the grill for a minute?"

David grinned as Colby took the spatula. "That's a little bit like asking the fox to watch the henhouse."

As Don strode away with Larry trotting after him, Colby glanced over his shoulder and grabbed a hamburger bun from a stack nearby, flipping a cooked burger onto it. "You got that right. Don't tell Sierra - I'm going to sneak one before dinner."

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A brief check with Alan confirmed that he hadn't seen Charlie recently either, and in fact, was wondering where he was, himself. Don left Larry with his father and Joanie, and headed toward Robin, who was chatting with a neighbor in the back of the yard as they watched Charlotte clamber up her little plastic slide. "Hey," he murmured, after excusing himself for interrupting, "have you seen Charlie?"

Her eyebrows lifted, and she automatically looked over the guests in the yard. "No, actually, I haven't. Maybe he's inside."

Don grimaced. "Yeah, I'm going there next. It would be nice if he would come out and say hello to people – he _is_ the guest of honor."

The inside of the house was empty, he found, moments later. No one, and especially not Charlie, in the main living areas. He checked the bathroom and the bedrooms just to be sure, and with a deepening frown, made his way out of the house toward his father. Robin, with one eye still on Charlotte, had joined Alan, Joanie, and Larry. "I don't see him anywhere," said Don, looking at Alan. "He's not in the house. He didn't ask you for a ride home, did he?"

Alan's face now wore a frown, as he pulled out his cell phone. "No – hold on a minute, let me call him."

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Charlie felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and it brought him out of his musings and stopped him in his tracks. He glanced at the number, and took in his surroundings. He'd walked several blocks already, and was on a street lined with attractive shops, approaching downtown Burbank. He flipped open the phone with an odd sense of reluctance. "Yes?"

"_Charlie!"_ exclaimed his father on the other end. "_Where are you?"_

Charlie hesitated. He really hadn't intended on going so far, and had set out on the walk with a vague plan to return to the cookout. Suddenly, however, he knew that the party was the last place he wanted to be. "I wasn't feeling well," he said. "I went for a walk to see if it would help, but I think I'm just going to catch a cab and head home."

"_A cab! Nonsense, Charlie_," came his father's voice. "_Where are you? I'll come get you and give you a ride._"

"No, that's okay, Dad, really, don't bother," Charlie said hastily. "Tell everyone I'm sorry, and that I'll see them soon." He disconnected before Alan could reply, and turned the phone off. He just stood there for a moment, a feeling of guilt washing through him, and then grimaced. There was no sense feeling guilty – they probably didn't even miss him; in fact, Don, no doubt was relieved – he could spend the evening visiting with his friends.

Still the guilt prevailed, and reluctantly, Charlie decided that he should go back to the party. It would be rude to leave, even if he wasn't really wanted there. He had no intention of walking all the way back, however; he'd come a long way without realizing it. Rousing himself with a sigh, he looked around for a cab. A car whooshed by, and he blinked. Then another car, too fast, and a loud, rumbling truck. People passed him on the sidewalk, giving him odd looks, and one of them jostled him as he passed. The street seemed suddenly too loud, too busy, and with a rising sense of anxiety, he scanned it, searching for a taxi as he began to walk, slowly at first, then faster.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan slowly shut his phone, and looked at the group, nonplussed. "He said he wasn't feeling well and went for a walk, but it didn't help. He's going to catch a cab and go home."

Don's face had darkened like a thundercloud during the phone conversation, and at Alan's statement, he snorted in disgust. "Yeah, right. You know, this party's for _him_." He opened his mouth as if to continue, then shook his head, muttered, "Forget it," and stalked back toward the grill.

The rest of the group looked at each other for a moment, perturbed, and then Robin murmured, "Excuse me," and hurried after Don.

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Carlos Abrego cruised slowly in his van down East Magnolia in downtown Burbank, trolling, a block behind the figure hurrying ahead of him. The man was slight, with dark curly hair, well dressed for a Saturday in khaki pants and a blazer, and seemed to be in a hurry. Better yet, he appeared to be looking for a taxi. Carlos drifted behind, watching, as the man's quick stride took him down two blocks to the other side of the downtown district, closer to the overpass for Highway 5. His route was the deciding factor – it was leading toward where Carlos' accomplice sat, in his pseudo cab. Carlos flipped open his cell phone. "Juan, I think we got one. White, looks like he's in his thirties, maybe, with tan pants and a brown jacket. Dark curly hair. He's coming right for you, man, your side of the street – I think he's lookin' for a cab."

"_Okay, got 'im_," came the response. Carlos paused at a red light at the intersection, his eyes trained across the street and down the next block as the man picked up speed and trotted toward Juan's fake cab, his hand raised. Carlos grinned.

He watched as the man got in and Juan pulled away from the curb, coming towards him on the other side of the intersection. Juan stopped at the light and faced him across the intersection, his left turn signal blinking, and their eyes met. The light turned green, and Carlos waved Juan through the light and turned right behind him, following the cab. He was still smiling, as they drove out of Burbank.

Several blocks later, near a long deserted stretch of fence outside a warehouse, Juan pulled over, and swung into a small gravel lot. Carlos pulled in behind him and parked the van, and then walked over to the cab, yanking open the rear door as he pulled his nine millimeter, smiling as he took in the look of startled apprehension in the passenger's eyes. He slid in next to him on the back seat and pointed his pistol at him, and the man instinctively shifted slightly backwards toward the opposite door, his eyes fixed on the gun.

"Cooperate, and you don't get hurt," Carlos lied to the man. He looked at Juan. "Drive."

About three blocks away, the left rear window came down with soft swoosh, and Carlos spoke again. "Throw your cell phone out the window."

Their captive pulled it from his pocket and complied, his eyes still on the nine millimeter. Carlos could hear the phone clatter on the pavement as the window came up again, and the car accelerated into the twilight.

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End, Chapter 5

_A/N: You didn't think I'd write a story without a bit of whumping, now, did you?_

_Numb3rs fans – check out my profile for important news about the show._


	6. Chapter 6

**WP**

**Chapter 6 – Needle in a Haystack**

_A/N: Thanks again, all, for the reviews and alerts…_

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Saturday, April 12, 2014, early evening_

* * *

Charlie cast a sideways look at the pistol aimed at his gut, his heart thumping. The driver of the cab was heading southeast on side streets that wound their way through marginal neighborhoods, toward an area that Charlie knew had been associated with Latino gangs five years ago. Apparently, it still was.

"Lemme see your wallet." The man in the back seat spoke abruptly, and Charlie slowly drew it out from his hip pocket. It contained everything it had when he'd gone into WP – plus a modest amount of cash that they'd forwarded him from his bank account for the trip home, until he could get to his bank. His driver's license, his ATM card, his credit cards had all expired. He hadn't bothered to remove them – he'd had no reason to use his wallet in the think tank and had tucked it in the back of a drawer; and when he'd pulled it out, it still contained all of its original contents. He hadn't even had a chance yet to go through the cards and decide what he did or did not want to reinstate. He watched as the man with the gun pulled out the cash and then began scowling as he looked at the dates on the credit cards. "What the hell?" he asked crossly. "Don't you keep up with your damn cards?"

The driver asked, "He doesn't have an ATM card?"

The man with the gun relaxed a bit, as he fingered the piece of plastic. "Yeah, he does." The ATM card didn't have an expiration date on it, Charlie knew, and the man obviously thought it was current. Charlie hesitated, wondering if he should tell them it had expired, also. He decided against it - maybe if they thought it was valid and they had what they wanted, they'd just let him go. He waited, expecting the man to ask him for his personal identification number, but the man with the gun said nothing, just stuffed the contents of the wallet back in it, and shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans.

The driver turned down a side street into an industrial section of East Los Angeles, a bit south of Commerce, as the sun dipped low on the horizon. It was sparsely populated on a Saturday night, and the driver headed for a section of the warehouse district that had apparently never recovered from the 2009 economic slump; it was run down, the buildings obviously abandoned. He pulled up to a chain link gate, stopped the car and got out; unlocking a padlock, then pulled the car inside and relocked the gate. They wound around the corner of a warehouse, and the driver pulled the car into a loading bay.

"Get out." The man with the gun was gesturing, and Charlie obeyed, stepping out into the cavernous, empty loading dock. The slam of the car door echoed through the darkening building with a sound of finality, and Charlie had the sickening sense that he was facing his last few seconds on earth. He closed his eyes, waiting for the shot he was certain would come, but instead felt a rough shove from behind. "Walk."

His eyes flew open as he stumbled forward, and with the man holding the gun walking behind him, he followed the driver, who was heading across the loading dock floor toward the back of the building. They went through a door, and he found himself in a large windowless room in the center of the building. The driver flicked on a light, revealing their surroundings. It had once been a warehouse office and had a bare fluorescent bulb overhead, which cast a cold stark light, illuminating a dirty tiled floor. There was a battered rectangular table in the center of it with a wood-look laminate top and metal legs, surround by four marred but heavy wooden chairs. The man with the gun pushed Charlie toward one of them, and said, "Sit."

He did so, his throat tight with apprehension, and found himself facing his captors across the table. The driver, a good-looking man of medium build, stood, but the man with the gun sat, eyeing Charlie. He was bigger, older than the other man was, with a wide face roughened by acne pits and an ugly twisted scar that puckered his cheek, probably from a knife fight. They both looked Hispanic, with black hair, skin with an olive cast, dark eyes. More than their features, their accents gave them away – they spoke English with a hint of Latin, or barrio, dialect. "We're gonna wait here until it gets dark, then we're goin' to an ATM," said the man with the gun. "You're gonna pull out all the money you can in one transaction, then we're gonna take a ride, an' hit some other ones. We're gonna be there with you, out of sight of the ATM camera but you'll be within the range of this gun, you got it? You try anything stupid, you're a dead man."

Charlie stared at him, his heart pounding, thinking furiously. He could identify them – they hadn't bothered to disguise themselves, which was ominous. If he told them his card had expired, they would probably kill him right there on the spot. His only chance would be to go along, and hope that he would get a chance to escape when they visited the ATMs. He nodded, wordlessly, in answer.

The man with the gun rose from the table as the driver came around toward Charlie and pulled something from a cardboard box nearby on the floor. With a lurch of his heart, Charlie realized that the younger man held plastic zip ties and rope. "We're gonna go get his van," said the driver, with a jerk of his head toward the man with the gun. "You're gonna stay here until we come back. Put your hands behind your back." He handed the rope to the other man. "Here, Carlos – hold this a minute."

Charlie obeyed, closing his eyes to try to control the surge of fear that shot through him, a sense of panic at being confined. Behind him, he could feel a zip tie being pulled tightly around his wrists; then rope was played out and wrapped around his chest, binding him to the wooden chair. As the rope tightened, he could feel the corners of the chair's back digging into the underside of his upper arms. Two more zip ties fixed his ankles to the legs of the chair. He swallowed and opened his eyes.

Carlos, the man with the gun, was standing over him with a smile that was more of a leer, twisted as it was by his scarred cheek. "You can yell all you want, man. No one's gonna hear you in here. C'mon, Juan."

Juan, the driver, gave one more yank to the rope securing Charlie to the chair, and they walked out. Juan turned out the light and shut the door behind them, plunging the room in darkness, but not before Charlie made out the blood stains on the tile surrounding his feet.

* * *

Alan pulled into the driveway of the Craftsman at a little after nine, noting with a frown that the house was completely dark. He'd dropped Joanie off at the condo they'd bought; she'd already moved in. As soon as Charlie was settled, they would hold the wedding, a simple little ceremony, and Alan would move in with her. They'd debated having her come over for a bit after the cookout to get to know Charlie a little better, but had finally decided against it – he wasn't feeling well, after all. Joanie and Robin had come to Charlie's defense after he had gone; both women seemed to sense that he was still trying to adjust to the outside world again, and been quite sympathetic. Although Alan hadn't been as outwardly displeased as Don had been, he was still disappointed in Charlie's behavior. '_Unless he really is ill,_' he thought to himself, with rising concern, as he hurried toward the house. The dark windows hinted that perhaps his son had gone to bed already. He frowned as he hurried toward the door.

The front door was locked, and Alan fumbled a bit with his keys as he let himself into the house and flicked on a light. The living room was empty, as he'd expected, although he shot a quick glance toward the sofa to be sure that Charlie hadn't fallen asleep there, and then trudged up the stairs. At the top, he flicked on the hallway light. Charlie's bedroom was dark but the door was ajar, and Alan's frown intensified as he made his way down the hall and peered inside. The light from the hallway was enough for him to tell that the room was unoccupied, but he flicked on Charlie's bedroom light anyway, to be sure. Puzzled, he turned the light off and stepped back out in the hallway, the concern leaching into his voice as he called out to the empty house, "Charlie?"

At the same instant, he thought to himself, '_garage_.' No doubt, Charlie was out there getting reacquainted with his chalkboards. Moments later, after checking the same, and stumping out to the bench near the koi pond for good measure; he pulled out his cell phone.

* * *

Robin sat on the bed and watched as Don pulled off his polo shirt, smoky smelling from the grill, with a scowl. The last guest had gone moments ago, and she'd just laid an exhausted Charlotte in her crib in the next room. "Well, it _was_ a nice party," she offered.

Don's face was tight with anger. "Yeah," he said sarcastically, as he pulled sharply at the buckle of the belt at the waist of his jeans. "Too bad he couldn't be bothered with it."

Robin frowned at him in spite of the masculine expanse of bare chest facing her, which, she had to admit, was distracting. She never even noticed the scar on his side any longer, left from a stabbing about five years ago. It had faded, and the ugly memories along with it. "You're taking this personally."

"No, I'm not," retorted Don, turning to face her. "No matter how you look at it, it was rude of him."

She sighed, and shook her head. "Look, we just tried to do this too soon. You remember what the man from WP told us – that people who exit WP, and the place where Charlie was in particular, often need some help or at least a bit of time to readjust. He just left the place yesterday morning; remember; all this was probably just too much for him."

Don snorted, and turned away toward the bathroom. "Yeah, just like it was too much for him to talk to us – his own family - yesterday. He's got his own agenda, and he doesn't give a shit about anyone else – it's pretty damn obvious."

Robin rose from the bed, her eyes sharp. "You know what your problem is? You're feeling sorry for yourself."

He swung back around at her, his expression incredulous. "What?"

"You heard me," she said firmly. "You felt abandoned when he left and you're still pissed at him for that, and you're upset that he hasn't fallen all over himself to see you, maybe even apologize, now that he's back."

"That's ridiculous," Don shot back. "He couldn't help what happened."

"Precisely," said Robin, confidently. "But that didn't stop you from being angry at him – I remembered how you argued with him not to take that case. You've been stewing over that for five years."

He had no good response for that, he just stared at her, and she knew she'd hit home. Her voice softened, and she walked toward him and looked up into his eyes. "Look, I know how much he means to you, and how it hurt to lose him. But if you don't get your head out of your ass and find a little patience, you're going to lose him again, maybe not physically, but emotionally. He's scared, Don, he's struggling – you can see it in his eyes, and if you weren't so wrapped up in your own hurt feelings, you'd see it, too. Did you ever think how things must look to him? He's got to feel that we've all moved on without him – and to be truthful, we have. He's probably feeling pretty left out. And you've been so tense – you haven't exactly been Mr. Welcoming Committee, yourself. Relax a little, and maybe he'll do the same."

He opened his mouth to speak, and for a moment, she thought he was going to argue with her, but then he sighed. "Yeah, whatever," he grumbled, but she could see tell from his eyes, his body language, that the fight had gone out of him. Her smile held a hint of triumph mingled with affection, as he turned away toward the bathroom to get a shower. She knew that look - he agreed with her, he just didn't want to admit it. Her smile deepened as she watched him trudge through the bathroom door. He didn't realize that he already had.

The phone on the dresser beside her rang, and she picked it up quickly – chances were, nothing would wake Charlotte at the moment, but she wasn't taking that chance – she was tired, too. "Hello? Yes, Alan – he's just about to grab a shower, hold on."

Don had stripped off his belt and turned in the bathroom to face her, still in his jeans, and as he took the phone, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled back at him. '_Yeah, I won; he admits it_,' she thought with satisfaction, as her eyes traced the curve of his handsome jaw, and dropped to his chest. Maybe a little repeat of that morning was in order… Her amorous thoughts were broken off by the frown that had crept to Don's face, as he said, "Did you try his cell phone?" Pause. "And what about Cal Sci?" Another brief pause, and Don's face relaxed a just a bit. "Yeah, Dad, I know he doesn't have his office back yet, but what about Larry's? You know he was dying to see Charlie and he left the party early – maybe they're at Larry's office, going over Charlie's papers. Yeah, okay – but call me back if you don't get him. I'll wait."

He disconnected the phone, and Robin looked up at him, puzzled. "What's wrong?"

"Charlie," said Don. His voice was level, but she could hear just a hint of worry in it. "He wasn't home, and wouldn't answer his cell phone. He's got to be with Larry, though, where else would he be?"

The phone rang again less than three minutes later, and Don immediately connected. "Yeah, Dad." Robin watched his face change, falling from worry into something deeper, more disturbed, and she felt an odd little chill run through her. "Okay," said Don. "Maybe he just stopped somewhere to blow off a little steam. I'll make a run from Burbank to Pasadena, and check out the bars along the route." Pause. "I _know_ that doesn't sound like him, but we don't really know what does sound like him anymore, do we? Just relax, okay? We'll find him."

* * *

He searched Burbank first, with quick cursory checks into the most likely spots before jumping on I-5 and heading toward Glendale. Burbank and Pasadena were only 12 miles apart, a fifteen minute drive when he drove straight there, with Glendale in between. Two hours later, he was leaving the last bar/restaurant in Glendale – a spot that Charlie used to like - and worry, which had been simmering since Alan's call, was really starting to assert itself. He couldn't help but wonder about the Molina cartel. Granted, he knew that the head of the cartel and his immediate family and top lieutenants had been eliminated, but what if there was still a connection in the States somewhere? There had been a powerful Molina boss in L.A., although he hadn't heard much about him lately. Of course, it was conceivable that he wouldn't even if the Molinas were still active – they were the DEA's territory, not his. He pushed the thought out of his mind – even if there was a connection, there was no way that they could have found out that Charlie was out so quickly. No, there had to be another explanation – something he was sure they would all laugh about later. '_After I get done strangling Charlie, that is_,' he thought sourly.

He checked his watch – it was a little after eleven, and pulled out his cell phone as he got on state route 134W, headed toward Pasadena. "Hey, Dad," he said, as it was answered, "you hear from him yet?" At his father's negative response he frowned, and sighed. "All right, I'm headed toward Pasadena – it makes more sense that he'd stop there anyway. Let me know if he shows up."

He hung up the phone, with a scowl generated by irritation and apprehension. '_This is like searching for a needle in a haystack_,' he thought. '_He could be anywhere_.'

* * *

Sixteen miles south, Carlos Abrego's van, carrying two killers and their captive, pulled onto E. Washington Blvd. in Commerce, headed toward the nearest ATM.

* * *

End, Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

**WP**

**Chapter 7 - Gone**

_A/N: Sorry for the delay; the site had a mind of its own._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Saturday, April 12, 2014, late evening_

* * *

Charlie sat in the back of the van, rubbing his wrists, trying to flush the last of the numbness from his hands. The man with the gun, who he now knew was named Carlos, sat across from him in the windowless darkness, the gloom in the vehicle lightened only by the streetlights coming in through the windshield. The van was a battered, gutted delivery van; the only seats and windows were up front, and Charlie and his captor sat on wooden crates, pilfered no doubt from the warehouse. Juan was driving, and Carlos was speaking.

"We're gonna stop at this ATM up here. We know your bank, West Federal Savings, and we know what the limit is – one thousand at a pop. After an hour wait, they let you draw again. We're gonna ride around tonight, and every hour, we're gonna stop, and you're gonna pull out a thousand bucks. Act normal, don't try nothin' stupid, and you won't get hurt. I'll have this gun on you the whole time, and I can tell you, I'm a damn fine shot." He grinned, and a gold tooth gleamed in the dimness. Charlie's eyes inadvertently strayed toward the gun; he couldn't help but remember the bullet in his gut, five years ago, the burning agony…

The van abruptly lurched as Juan pulled into a driveway and brought the vehicle to a halt in a small empty parking lot. The ATM was in a section of town that bustled in the daytime, but no one used it at night; the area wasn't the best section of town and it was too deserted after business hours. Carlos handed him the ATM card, and as Juan came around and opened the rear doors of the van, Carlos clambered out after Charlie, who was acutely aware of the gun trained on his back. Charlie immediately glanced around, looking for escape routes. There were none; all the businesses in the area were closed up for the night, and he couldn't even count on flagging down help – there weren't enough cars and no pedestrians on foot, unless he wanted to count the ragged drunk disappearing into an alley across the street. A single street light shone half-heartedly, a block away.

He had hoped he'd be able to make a run for it, or attract the attention of someone who could help him, but his captors had chosen their site well. Still, Charlie decided to try the card, even though it didn't work. He could claim ignorance, and if he put himself in front of the ATM, he would at least be recorded on camera. If anyone came looking for him, his presence on the recording might give them a clue.

Carlos and Juan moved with him to a point a few yards away from the ATM, outside the camera range, then Carlos said, "We'll wait right here. We're only a few feet away, and remember I have the gun. It's an easy shot from here – don't try anything stupid. Just go, get the money, and come back to us."

Charlie nodded, and clutching the card so tightly it bit into his hand, stepped up in front of the machine. He inserted the card and punched in his personal identification number. For a moment, there was nothing on the screen as the machine tried to process the request, and Charlie had a split second to wonder if the card was going to work after all. Maybe the Tank had contacted West Federal, and they'd reinstated it… No such luck. Words came up on the screen – _"Not a recognized account. Please see your local branch during business hours."_ The machine spit the card back out at him.

He glanced sideways – he could see Carlos and Juan staring, scowling. They couldn't possibly see the screen, but it was apparent they'd done this before, and they could tell that the transaction wasn't proceeding normally. Charlie put in his card again, trying to delay – if he tried enough times, maybe it would set off some kind of alarm; or maybe someone would come along…

"_Not a recognized account. Please see your local branch during business hours." _

The card came out of its slot again as if the machine was sticking out its tongue in defiance, and Charlie took it and prepared to try again, but halted at the hissed words coming from Carlos. "Get over here."

He shot one last desperate glance around, but saw nowhere to run, no one to help, so he put his head down and complied. As soon as he reached them, Carlos gripped his arm, painfully. "What's wrong?"

"I – uh – I don't know," said Charlie, through gritted teeth, trying to resist the urge to pull his arm out of Carlos' iron grasp. "It won't process my request. I tried it twice."

Their faces were filled with mistrust. "What did it say?" growled Juan.

Charlie didn't want them to know that he knew the transaction wouldn't go through, and he wavered just a moment as he recalled the words on the screen, making sure they wouldn't incriminate him. He needn't have worried about that – the hesitation itself was suspicious, and Carlos steered him back toward the van. "Get in," he growled, and gave Charlie a push as he climbed inside.

Carlos and Juan clambered in after him, and shut the van doors. "What did it say?" rasped Carlos, thrusting his face into Charlie's. His breath hit Charlie's face; hot, humid, smelling of onions and the fetid results of poor dental hygiene.

Charlie tried to keep his voice steady. "It said: 'Not a recognized account. Please see your local branch during business hours.'"

Carlos backed off and glanced at Juan, disconcerted. It was apparent to Charlie that they hadn't run into this situation before, but Carlos recovered immediately and turned, glaring at Charlie. "Why would it say that? What's with you – you go bankrupt or somethin'? You get all your cards an' accounts shut down?"

Charlie hesitated, and Carlos, his face livid, grabbed him by the shirtfront, and pushed him against the side of the van. "Answer me!"

"Okay!" Charlie gasped, and took a breath, trying to will his pounding heart to calm as Carlos relaxed his grip just slightly. "I was – out of the country for several years – until last week. All of my cards have expired. I have an appointment with the bank on Tuesday to get my accounts reactivated, including my ATM account."

Carlos and Juan exchanged a glance, and then Carlos asked suspiciously, "Why didn't you tell us? Why did you even try it?"

"I wasn't sure." Charlie tried to sound sincere. "I thought maybe it would work."

Carlos stared at him for a moment, the faint outside light coming through the windshield turning his scarred face into an ugly study in black and white. Charlie stared back at him, his chest heaving, and for a moment, the only noise was the sound of his breathing, and the faint hum of tires as a car made its way down the dark street outside.

Then Carlos released his shirt, rocked back on his heels and jerked his head at Juan to follow him, as he turned toward the rear of the van. "Stay there, and do not move," he directed Charlie. "We are going to talk."

Charlie stayed where he was, slumped against the side of the van, and the doors slammed shut as he closed his eyes. The adrenaline that had rushed through him was still coursing through his veins, and as his muscles relaxed, he could feel himself shaking. He could hear low voices just outside the van, but he couldn't make out what Carlos and Juan were saying.

A few moments later, Charlie's eyes flew open as the doors creaked again. Carlos climbed in the back of the van and shut the doors, and Juan got into the driver's seat and started the engine. Neither of them said a word, and Charlie wondered desperately what they'd decided. It seemed beyond hope that they would simply let him go – he could identify them, after all. More than likely, they were taking him somewhere remote, so they could kill him and dump his body. He could feel his head swimming; he felt suddenly light-headed, and he swallowed. He needed to stay conscious – his only chance would be to try to run as soon as they got to their destination.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, as the van lumbered through the night.

* * *

At around three a.m., Don Eppes stepped wearily through the door of the Craftsman. Alan was on his feet, halfway across the room, hope fading from his face as he saw Don shut the door behind him, and Alan realized he was alone. "No luck?"

Don could hear the tightness in his father's tone. "No," he said quietly, despondently. "I've looked everywhere I could think of."

Alan rubbed his temple wearily. "I can't help but think that this is my fault. The witness protection people mailed a packet here, with some guidelines on helping family members readjust after coming out of the Tank. There wasn't much there, just some general guidelines, but they cautioned against pushing former residents into social situations too fast, and to watch for signs of anxiety or depression. I read it, but I thought a little barbecue wouldn't hurt anything – I thought that would be a good way to ease him back into his old life."

Don shook his head. "It shouldn't have hurt – you couldn't have known, Dad, and besides, he accepted the invitation right away. It wasn't as if we had to talk him into it. If he didn't want to go, he never let on." He paused, and said quietly. "I'm getting ready to go in to the office and call this in."

Alan searched his face. "Can you do that? Doesn't someone have to be gone for more than 24 hours before they'll consider them missing?"

"Yeah, they do," admitted Don, "but I'm hoping that they'll consider the circumstances – the fact that Charlie was only a day out of witness protection – and start a case sooner."

Alan paled, and stared at him. "You think this is connected – to – that?"

Don tried to wipe the grim look off his face, and look reassuring. "I don't know, Dad. I really don't know what to think – maybe he just went somewhere to blow off steam; he really wasn't acting normally. Maybe he's going through some kind of breakdown. Either way, we need to find him. If making this sound worse than it is gets LAPD out looking for him, I don't mind doing that." He could still see worry growing in his father's face, and he tried harder. "I really don't think it's related to that, Dad – Molina and all his top people are gone. No one's left from that group to care about Charlie. Look, you need to get some sleep – if he's gone this long, it means he's probably upset, and when he finally shows up, he may need someone to talk to. Go to bed – I'll call you if something comes up."

Alan nodded slowly, but as Don turned to leave, his father was still standing in the living room, looking old and lost.

He called Robin on the way to the office, to tell her he was going in. When he got there, the bullpen was dark and empty, the room only lit by security lights over the doorways, and he left the main lights off, flicking on a desk lamp instead. In spite of his promotion, he still sat on the same floor with the agents, but instead of a cubicle, he now had an office in the corner, next to the conference room. Wright had tried to put him upstairs in an office next to his, but Don had refused, saying he needed to be closer to the action. The location had its drawbacks – being so close to the L.A. team sometimes led to him getting too involved in the details of their cases, at the expense of the cases in Las Vegas and San Diego. He'd planned to spend more time on the road to fix that, and when he got the news that Charlie was coming back, that travel time suddenly seemed a little less odious. He could take Charlie with him to consult; they'd get to spend some time together…

He ran a hand over his face, and logged into his computer. His new rank gave him access to a listing of the phone numbers of higher-level contacts in other government organizations, and he found a contact for the DEA. He explained the situation, and the man apparently deemed the situation serious enough to tie him into Mike Jacobs, the director, in spite of the hour. It was after six a.m. in Washington, and Jacobs was already up. He listened with quiet concern, and when Don had finished his explanation, he agreed that Don should contact LAPD, and that he would get his own organization, the DEA, to offer any assistance they could – particularly his L.A. agents. Don hung up, not sure whether to be glad that Jacobs had taken this so seriously, or not – the fact that he did was ominous. Maybe there _were_ some people from the Molina cartel behind this – Molina had a strong base in L.A. before he was killed. Don swallowed to relax a throat that had suddenly constricted and dialed A.D. Wright's home number. Wright agreed that Don could also assign FBI resources to the case, and gave him the go-ahead to call LAPD, so Don's next call was to Lieutenant Gary Walker.

He and Lieutenant Walker went back years, and Walker knew Charlie, also. Walker was as tough and crusty as they came; he had to be – no one could survive in his position, in a city as filled with crime as L.A., if they weren't. Don had to imagine he was eligible for retirement, and wondered why he hadn't gone yet – but tonight, he was glad that he hadn't.

"Gary," he said quietly, when Walker came on the line. "I've got a problem."

Walker grunted, grumpily, although Don knew his gruff response was staged. The lieutenant knew that if Don Eppes called personally, something serious was brewing. "I'll say you have – calling me before four a.m. What is it?"

"It's Charlie."

Walker became businesslike, immediately. "I heard he came home – when – yesterday, the day before? What's the issue?"

"He's missing. I had a cookout at my house yesterday afternoon for him. He disappeared from the house – he apparently went for a walk, and when we called him on his cell phone, he answered, said he wasn't feeling well and was going home. My dad offered to pick him up, but he said no, he'd call a cab. When my dad got home this evening – last night - he wasn't there. Charlie won't answer his cell phone. I just spent the last several hours checking out places around Burbank and Pasadena – no sign of him."

"What time was it when your dad spoke to him on the phone?"

Don considered, briefly. "Probably around seven p.m. We were getting ready to eat."

"And did he say where he was then?"

"No, but he was on foot – my dad said he could hear a fair amount of traffic in the background. My guess is that he walked toward downtown Burbank."

"And what was his state of mind?"

Don hesitated for a moment. "I don't know – he was kind of – out of sorts."

"You mean upset?"

"No – it was hard to put my finger on it. He seemed tense, maybe even a little fearful."

"You think he thought someone was still after him?"

"No – not like that," Don replied slowly. "He'd just come out of a relatively secluded environment. He described the place to me in a phone call once – it sounded kind of like a dormitory, and they never left the place. We thought that maybe he was just having a hard time adjusting."

"Do you think he was depressed?"

Don mused, remembering the tension in Charlie's eyes, and something else along with it, something he hadn't wanted to acknowledge at the time, because he was angry with Charlie; he _wanted_ to be angry at Charlie – angry because Charlie hadn't listened to him, angry at Charlie for leaving him… He recognized the expressions now that he thought back on it – there was fear there, certainly, a bit of desperation, and sadness…

"He might have been," he said finally. "I would have thought that he would be glad to be home, but…We hadn't had much chance to talk yet – I guess I'm not sure."

He should have realized the angle that Walker was taking, but it never occurred to him, so Walker's next words shocked him a bit. "Do you think he was depressed enough to act on it?"

"What? You mean suicide? No!" Don exclaimed. "No – nothing like that."

Walker's voice was gentle. "You said yourself that you hadn't talked. Until yesterday, you hadn't seen him in five years. How do you know?"

"I don't know," Don said stubbornly. "He looked tense, maybe sad, maybe a little – I don't know, like he was desperate – searching for something. I can't describe it, but he didn't look like someone who had given up."

"Okay," said Walker. "It may be a voluntary disappearance on his part, but to be on the safe side, and with the Molina case background, we'll treat this as a suspected kidnapping." His tone was reasonable, but Don suspected that Walker was humoring him. He had no doubt that Walker would assign someone to pursue the option of suicide, anyway. When it came down to it, there was probably not a lot of difference – either way; they might be looking for a body. An uncontrollable shudder ran down his spine. He couldn't think like that – he would _not _think like that. After five years, he and Charlie finally had a chance to connect, once and for all, and Don refused to think that the opportunity had been taken away before they'd even tried.

He and Walker agreed to a phone conference at eight a.m. with the L.A. FBI team and some of Walker's best detectives, and Don hung up the phone. It was four-thirty – it really made no sense to go home and come back. He made his way wearily to the vinyl-covered sofa in the coffee area, called Robin once more to tell her he was staying at the office, and laid down to catch a little sleep.

* * *

Charlie lay on his side on the cold tile floor, and shivered. His captors had brought him back to the empty warehouse, back into the little office in the rear of the building. This time, instead of tying him to the chair, they had produced a length of chain from the van, with a padlock and a set of handcuffs. A support beam stood in the far end of the office; it had been enclosed in sheetrock to make it look like a square post, but Charlie knew from the spacing it had to be one of the metal I-beams that were positioned throughout the warehouse to support the roof. Juan and Carlos cuffed Charlie, circled the chain around the post, ran it through his cuffed hands, and then padlocked the chain together. It was a simple but effective restraint, and allowed for a bit more comfort that being strapped to a chair. Charlie could move to some degree; he could sit or lie down, and stand if he pulled the chain upward on the post a bit. With his hands cuffed in front of him, he could even handle some physical needs, and they'd left him a bucket for that purpose, and a bottle of water. Then they'd turned out the light, and gone.

Why they'd gone, why they'd left him alive, he had no idea. He wasn't sure that they knew why, themselves. For a while he'd sat there, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, too riled to rest. Finally, however, exhaustion set in, and he'd curled on his side on the floor and tried to sleep. There were no windows in the office, so he wasn't aware of it, but the sun was rising as he finally fell into a fitful slumber.

* * *

End, Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**WP**

**Chapter 8 - Memories**

_A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews and alerts. You'll need to pay attention to the time lines in this chapter._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Sunday, April 13, 2014, early morning_

* * *

Don felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a voice quietly saying his name, and blinked awake. David Sinclair was squatting next to him, with a bemused smile. "Hey," he greeted him. "Rough night? What's up, we got a hot case?"

Don roused himself, groggily, and pushed himself to a sitting position. The clock on the coffee room wall read 6:45. Don mentally cursed himself – he hadn't meant to sleep so long. David always got to the office early, but something was wrong – he wasn't in his usual suit jacket, he was wearing a polo and jeans, and then Don remembered it was Sunday morning. He ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. "Charlie's missing," he said. At the same time he said it, a little thrill of excitement ran through him – what if Charlie had shown up at home in the wee hours of the morning? The feeling left as quickly as it had come – if Charlie had appeared, surely Alan would have called him. He looked up, to see the smile leave David's face and bewilderment take its place.

"Missing? You mean since he left your house yesterday?"

Don nodded. "Dad got home last night and found that he wasn't there, and called me. I went poking around Burbank, Glendale, and Pasadena for a few hours, looking for him, but no luck. I came in here at around three-thirty or so and started making phone calls. The DEA and Wright have agreed to commit resources, and we've got a phone hook-up with LAPD at eight a.m. I need you to get on the phone and get Colby, Liz, and Nikki in here."

David was staring at him, and Don could see the bewilderment on his face transitioning to a look of deep concern. The expression didn't make Don feel any better. "Come on," was all that David said. "Let's get some coffee in you."

In spite of Don's assumption that his father would call him if Charlie had come home, he called the Craftsman anyway. He hated to wake his father, but before he started everything rolling, he needed to be sure that Charlie hadn't come in quietly during the night, while Alan was asleep. A groggy, depressed-sounding Alan confirmed that Charlie hadn't shown up, and Don apologized for waking him, and urged him to get back to bed.

The first thing Don did was call in a tech to put a trace on the GPS tracker in Charlie's phone. Sam Patterson, the local head of the DEA office, called at around seven and told Don he'd been asked to offer his services. Don invited him to the meeting at eight, and Patterson showed up in person, along with Gary Walker and three of his detectives. Colby, Liz, and Nikki had arrived by then, and A.D. Wright also attended – Don wasn't sure if it was to offer support, or to evaluate how well Don was handling himself. Maybe both. Don briefed them on what they knew – when Charlie had disappeared, and the conjecture that he was around downtown Burbank at the time.

"Charlie seemed to be having a little difficulty adjusting," Don said, as he concluded his brief outline of facts, "but it's very unlike him to simply disappear without telling anyone. Add to that the fact that he'd just gotten out of WP, and I thought it was prudent to bring in the DEA."

Walker looked at Patterson. "So what does the DEA have to say about this? Is there a chance the Molina cartel could be involved?"

Patterson was tall and rangy, with sandy hair and a youthful, boyish face that belied his forty years. He waited a beat before he spoke, his voice tinged with a western drawl. "It's possible. Molina had a strong connection here – L.A. was one of his main distribution centers, and we think it's perhaps the only one remaining now. His sister lives here, although we don't believe she or her husband were involved in the cartel operations. The head of the L.A. group was Molina's cousin, however; Francisco 'Frankie' Molina. Frankie's group is still operating in the area, although they would have had to find new sources for their drugs when the cartel was taken out in Mexico. We haven't seen much of Frankie – we think he's been lying low after the hit by the Espino clan, and we're pretty sure his group in L.A. isn't nearly as powerful or as wealthy as they were before the hit. They lost a lot – although I'm not sure why they would come after Professor Eppes for that. It seems more likely that they would blame the Espino cartel. They might fear, however, that Professor Eppes and the DEA would make an attempt to wipe out the rest of their operations – and in fact, we are. By 'we,' I mean the DEA – not Professor Eppes. The DEA is trying to clean up the remnants of that group, but once the main players were gone, we no longer needed Dr. Eppes' testimony. I wouldn't rule out the Molina cartel's involvement, but I'd say it was a long shot."

"_You_ know you aren't using Dr. Eppes as a consultant, but maybe _they_ don't," Liz pointed out. "Maybe they still thought he was a threat – that he came back to L.A. to help you finish off the remainder of the group."

Patterson shrugged and flicked a glance her way. "Like I said, it's possible. It wouldn't hurt to pay some visits to any contacts we can find. Molina's sister and her husband – Nelida and Romeo Caballero - run a legitimate business – a produce market – in East L.A. Frankie might be a little harder to locate – none of my people have seen him in the area since the hit went down in Monterrey."

Don looked at David. "We need to work closely with Agent Patterson and his people. Get a couple of people assigned to check out the Molina angle."

David nodded, jotting down notes, and Don looked up as a knock sounded at the door – it was the tech who'd gone to check the GPS in Charlie's phone, and Don's heart jumped a notch. "I've got a location on the cell," she said. "It's in an industrial area just outside of downtown Burbank."

Walker flipped open his cell phone. "We have a patrol stationed near there – I'll have dispatch call them to go to check it out." He looked at the tech. "Give me your number – they'll call you and you can guide them in."

Tension settled over the room after the tech departed. It was nearly unbearable for Don to sit there and wait for a report – he wanted to jump in his car and race for Burbank. The conversation continued – Patterson was filling in the L.A. team and the LAPD group on Frankie Molina's usual haunts, and Don tried hard to pay attention. He could sense Wright's gaze on him, appraising him.

What seemed like an intolerable time later but was only minutes, his heart lurched again as Walker's cell phone buzzed. The lieutenant flipped it open. "Walker. Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah, okay. No, don't put it into evidence yourself. Get the crime lab down there – I want that area scoured." He snapped his phone shut and looked at Don. "The patrol found the cell – it was lying in the gutter on Dana Street. That's a relatively short street that runs through the warehouse district just the other side of I-5 from Burbank. They said it looks pretty deserted on a weekend – closed up warehouses and chain link fence. No people, no cars. We should probably get down there and check it out."

The entire room looked at Don and he nodded then glanced at Patterson and David. "I want a few agents to go pay a visit to Molina's sister and her husband. The rest should go check out Dana Street." He looked at Walker. "I need some LAPD manpower in Burbank – I need some of your guys to canvass the area, see if anyone remembers seeing Charlie there yesterday."

A.D. Wright spoke up. "I'm going to get approval from the Director to get this out on the news – we can use the eyes of the public on this one. Sinclair, you'll need to set up a hotline to receive calls." His gaze flicked to Don, and he gave a slight nod as the occupants of the room rose and began to file out. It was approval, Don knew, for how he was handling himself. Don wondered himself at his detachment – he was calm, rational, reasonable, efficient – just as if it were any other case. The problem was he didn't know how he was maintaining that front, or how long it would last.

* * *

The flood of phone calls to the Craftsman started at 9:00 a.m. All of the callers were looking for Charlie; all of them were fellow professors or researchers, and all of them were referencing two publications. One of them, Alan was aware of – he'd been familiar at least by name with Charlie's cognitive emergence work. The other, he didn't recognize at all. Many of the callers left a number, asking Charlie to call them back, and after the first few, Alan started just letting the calls go the answering machine. He didn't know what to say to them anyway – other than '_Charlie's out, and I have no idea when he'll be back._' He knew from Don that a press release on Charlie's disappearance would be going out at noon, but he was afraid to say anything to the callers about Charlie's disappearance until then. There was one person he could talk to, however, and he picked up his cell phone and dialed Larry Fleinhardt.

Larry was stunned to hear that not only had Charlie not shown up the night before, but there was a full-court press in progress to find him, involving the LAPD, FBI, and DEA. Within minutes, he was at the Craftsman, and as the phone calls rolled in, to Alan's infinite relief, Larry managed them, taking messages and sometimes discussing parts of the papers. As Alan listened to the conversations, the significance of what Charlie had done began to dawn on him. Following the end of one conversation, he looked at Larry. "These papers that Charlie published – they're big, aren't they?"

Larry looked at him earnestly. "Oh, Alan, you have no idea. His cognitive emergence work has been long awaited, of course, but his paper on dimensional significance is creating most of the buzz. There have been many notable theories with regards to a 'theory of everything,' including string theory in the eighties, and others before and since. What they've lacked however, was the math to explain the connection between the behavior of subatomic particles and Newtonian physics. There hasn't been anything this significant from a mathematical perspective since E = mc squared. Of course, something like this will take years to verify, but so far, all of the callers are agreeing, Charlie's reasoning looks on the surface to be unimpeachable. Just the concept - it is so novel, yet almost feels instinctively to be right – one almost feels the urge to smack one's forehead, and say, 'Of course!'" He smiled at Alan. "Which is pretty much the content of all of these calls." His smile faded, although his earnest expression didn't. "We have to find him, Alan – we must."

The phone rang again, and Larry picked it up, and then looked at Alan a bit blankly as he answered. "Current Events? The network news show? You want to do a profile on Dr. Eppes?"

* * *

Charlie pushed himself upright to a sitting position, wincing as his stiff muscles protested the movement. At thirty-nine, he looked almost ten years younger than he really was, but right now, his body was asserting its true age, and he grunted as a spasm shot down his back. His stomach growled, and he felt for the bottle of water in the darkness – he'd left it on the other side of the post from where he lay, so he wouldn't knock it away if he moved while he slept. He sipped sparingly then carefully replaced the lid – he had no idea how long he needed to make it last, no idea when his captors would return.

For that matter, he had no idea what time it was. He still had his watch, but the room was so dark he couldn't read it. He could have slept for one hour, or ten. Even awake, it was hard to gauge the time unless he tried to count seconds, which was so mind numbing that after a few minutes, he gave it up. They had to be out looking for him by now, he reasoned. His father would have come home to discover him gone – unless Alan had assumed he had turned in for the night, and had gone to bed himself. That thought made his gut contract, but he reassured himself by thinking, '_It's got to be morning by now. Even if Dad didn't notice I wasn't there last night, he would this morning. He'd call Don, and Don will start looking…_'

He grimaced slightly at the thought. He _assumed_ that Don would start looking – it was conceivable that they might think he'd just gone a bit off the deep end and disappeared under his own power. And even if Don was looking, Charlie hated the thought of it. Don had politely tried to hide it, but had Charlie definitely felt the undercurrent of – something negative - coming from his older brother. Irritation, he decided. He had to face the fact that Don's feelings for him were questionable to begin with, and although Charlie had thought that was starting to change when they worked together, five years apart had effectively erased any positive feelings Don might have had. Five years apart, because Charlie hadn't listened to him when Don had warned him against getting involved in the Molina case. Yes, that 'something negative' was surely irritation and resentment and possibly patent dislike. All of that would be intensified now, because Charlie had been stupid enough to get picked up by two felons, and Don had to spend time and resources to find him. If their relationship had been on life support, Charlie had just managed to put the final kink in the oxygen hose.

He sighed and lay down again on the hard tile floor and closed his eyes against the darkness, his mind wandering back to the night his life changed, irrevocably.

_

* * *

_

_Saturday, May 30, 2009_

"_You're a dead man, Dr. Eppes."_

Charlie pulled the phone receiver from his ear and stared at it as if it were something live and grotesque, his stomach in a knot, and stood stock-still at his bedroom desk. He heard a click on the other end and the Latin-accented voice was gone, but he knew exactly who was behind it – Oscar Molina, or one of his men.

He set the receiver down in its cradle, and pondered what to do next. His work for the DEA concerning the Molina cartel was finished, other than his testimony, which would add to the effectiveness of the U.S. District Attorney's presentation to the court, but was not required. His work could still be presented even if he was not there in person to testify; the case was damning either way. He wondered if Molina knew that. Was the threat intended to scare him away from the witness stand, or did Molina already understand that the case would stand on the work that had been done without Charlie appearing in person? If the former was the situation, Charlie could circumvent the threat by declining to testify, without hurting the case. If the latter was true, then Molina understood that his was a lost cause either way; and he was merely out for revenge.

The thoughts spun around in Charlie's head, and he wondered again what to do – should he pick up the phone and call Mike Jacobs, head of the DEA? Or perhaps LAPD? There was one person who could probably give him the best advice, but Charlie hated to ask him. Don was at the Craftsman that night – he had come to eat dinner with Charlie and Alan. It was a tentative, somewhat grudging extension of an olive branch. When Charlie had been considering the case weeks earlier, he'd mentioned it to Don, asking him what he knew about Molina. Don told him what he knew, and then promptly told him not to take the case. Not suggested, not advised – told him, _ordered_ him in a tone that could only be described as peremptory. Deep down, Charlie had known that Don's gruff delivery was prompted by fear for his safety, but the tone and the idea that Don thought he could order him around on a case that had no connection to the FBI had irritated him, had goaded him into doing just what Don advised against. It had all gone well, up until now. Now Molina or one of his men was on the phone, promising certain death.

Charlie closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He should go to Don, he knew it – but God help him, if Don decided to lecture…

He walked slowly downstairs, noting with relief that Don was alone in the living room; his father was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. He'd been hoping to talk to Don privately first – maybe there would be some way to take the edge off the threat when he told his father – maybe Don would have an action plan. He came and stood beside the sofa, and when he didn't sit down immediately, Don looked up with narrowed eyes. Those eyes missed nothing; they'd been able to read Charlie since the moment he was born. "What is it?"

Charlie shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I – uh – just got a phone call."

Don stared at him for a minute, trying to read his expression. "And?"

"I think it was from Molina – or one of his men." Charlie suddenly felt too close, and backed away a step or two, shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look unconcerned. "You know, never mind. It couldn't be serious – it's probably just a scare tactic."

Don was finding his feet now, rising slowly from the sofa, his brows knitting. "What did they say?"

"It was one man – the voice had a Latino accent," Charlie hedged. Now that he was saying it aloud, it sounded ridiculous. Molina would be crazy to carry out such a threat – it would be another strike against him in court. Besides, there was protective detail stationed outside; and had been, ever since they'd finalized their investigation.

Don's voice rose and he took a step forward. "And what did he _say_?"

"'You're a dead man, Dr. Eppes.'" Charlie flushed as he spoke; the words sounded so theatrical, then shrugged, and began to turn away. "Like I said, never mind -,"

"Damn it, Charlie, I told you this would happen!" Don exploded, taking another stride forward.

Charlie swung back to face him, his own face drawing into a scowl, fear morphing into anger, and the expression on each of their faces was like a match to tinder, igniting the disagreement that had been smoldering for weeks. Don was standing over him now, one finger jabbing in the direction of his chest – not touching – but the gesture was condescending, as he spat, "You had to go and take this case. I told you Molina was nothing to mess with-,"

"It was a damn phone call, Don!"

"I told you-,

"It didn't mean anything-,"

"Bullshit – now they're gonna have to-,"

"You know, I came to you for advice-,"

"- stick you in witness protection-,"

"- and this is what I get instead!"

They were shouting at each other now, Charlie backing up, Don advancing, and Alan had come out of the kitchen, bewildered, adding his own voice to the din, "What's going on?"

"You know what?" yelled Charlie suddenly, "I've had enough of this shit!" He was boiling inside; he was sure if he stayed there, if Don didn't back off, he would punch him. He swung on his heel, and headed for the door.

Don was on him in two steps, and grabbed his arm. "Charlie, damn it, that's stupid! Just stay here-," and Charlie jerked away, then suddenly reversed direction and shoved into him, making Don lose his balance.

Don released his grip as he stumbled and went to his knees, and Charlie shot out the front door, flinging, "That's the last time I ask you for help – thanks a lot!" over his shoulder, as he strode through the planters and out onto the lawn, head down, shoulders hunched, seething. He knew he was safe; there was a patrol car on watch on the street outside – a precaution that the DEA had insisted upon even prior to the threatening phone call.

He was halfway to his Prius when he saw the strange car, headlights off, moving toward him, with the rear window descending. The patrol car parked at the curb was dark, unmoving, and he could see the streetlight shining through, backlighting cracks and holes in the windshield, and a motionless dark figure at the wheel. His protection detail, the LAPD officer – and he'd been shot. Charlie stopped dead and the world seemed to slow; he heard Don shouting behind him, heard the muffled _thwups_ from the silenced semiautomatic that had come out of the rear window of the strange vehicle, and then a blow to his gut that knocked him on the ground, even as Don's Glock spat out its own retort from the doorway of the Craftsman. Then there was the sound of an engine revving, and squealing tires.

For a moment, Charlie lay face up; looking at the stars, sure that he was dead. Then he caught his breath, and a horrible burning pain began to spread through him, and made him wish that he were.

He was in intensive care for a week; he remembered little of that, then there was a regular hospital room with a heavy guard for another week. Don came to visit, but only when someone else was there, and the bitter argument hung heavy between them, stifling conversation. On the day that Charlie was transported by medical helicopter to the Tank, only Alan, Amita and Larry were there to see him off – Don was noticeably absent.

_

* * *

_

_Sunday, April 13, 2014_

Charlie stirred and opened his eyes in the darkness, not sure if the vivid recollection was memory or dream. It was pitch black in the room, but he could still see Don's face clearly, and the scowl - generated by hurt and anger - on his brother's face, as he stood in Charlie's hospital room and listened to the DEA agent tell him and Alan that they were putting Charlie into witness protection. "It will only be for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, until we can organize the trial with the Mexican government."

The words floated through the darkness as clearly as if the agent had been there to speak them, and Charlie shut his eyes again, tightly, trying to hold in the tears.

* * *

End, Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

**WP**

**Chapter 9 - Hitting the Streets**

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_A/N: Trying to keep up; life is crazy lately. Your kind reviews are keeping me going on this, though – thanks to all._

_Sunday, April 13, 2014, afternoon_

* * *

"His meeting's at the bank's not 'til Tuesday, man." Carlos pointed at Juan's face. "Your mustache comes in like a freakin' weed – an' you got two days. Grow it out, grow a little beard, wear a ball cap an' sunglasses. All you gotta do is stand behind him with your gun, ready but out of sight."

Juan scowled, and swirled the coffee in his cup as they hunched over his battered kitchen table. "How come _you_ don't do it?"

Carlos jabbed finger at his own scarred face. "Look at this face. Number one, they'd remember it. Number two; you're a lot better lookin' than me. They'll trust you more. We'll have him call the bank an' tell 'em that he doesn't have long for an appointment, that he just wants to reactivate his ATM card that day, and he'll reschedule the other stuff. You'll come in with him – he can tell them you're his brother. You'll have the gun, of course, an' he'll know it, man. He won't do nothin' that'll get him or anyone else hurt. If you're smart, you pick out a kid when you walk in, or a pretty girl, or an old lady – whoever's there, and you whisper to him that you'll take them first, then him. He'll go along."

Juan frowned at his coffee cup, and Carlos leaned forward. "We'll have him take out a bunch of cash on the spot. That night, we take him out an' hit the ATM's, and get even more. Look, you saw his house when we drove by this morning. The guy's gotta be loaded – it'll be worth the risk. And with him, we won't leave his body for no one to find. We'll make sure we hide it when we're done. If they did ID you -," he held up his hand as Juan looked up, his eyes flashing, and then continued "- which they won't, 'cause the beard and the ball cap will make it tough for the surveillance camera to pick you up – but even if they did, what could they get you for? You'll pose as a cab driver. You could just say he asked you for a lift to the bank, and asked you to wait while he did some business. He'd be gone; there'd be nothin' they could ever prove. I'm tellin' you, we're almost set for a long time, and this Eppes guy's account would make sure of it. We'd be done, man, _done_."

Juan sighed. "Yeah, okay." He looked up, his jaw set tightly. "But you're comin' too, an' waitin' outside in case anything goes wrong."

* * *

Don stood in the middle of Dana Street, which had been cordoned off with sawhorses and yellow tape. Crime lab people huddled over the cell phone in the gutter, applying fingerprint dust, and a few more examined tire tracks along the street. The tire marks looked old; however, not fresh. Whoever had picked Charlie up had probably not even stepped on the brake when the cell phone went out the window; had probably not left any tracks.

The street was lined with warehouses and manufacturing buildings, and chain link fence stretched along most of both sides, broken only by a small gravel parking lot a block or two back, and the entrances to the warehouses themselves; driveways for loading docks. On a Sunday, the street was empty, an industrial ghost town.

Don stared at the cell phone, only vaguely aware of the personnel bustling around him. He had the same sick feeling in his gut that he'd had the night that Charlie had been shot, and the memory took hold of his consciousness – the darkness, the sound of shots, the blaze of his own gun, the screech of tires. Then he was running, tearing across the lawn to the prone figure on the ground, his heart lurching in terror at the dark stain spreading across Charlie's shirt. Charlie's eyes were already far away, huge and dark but dulled by pain…

"Where are you, Charlie?" he whispered to himself.

"You okay?"

He came back to the present with a start, to find Colby standing next to him with a look of concern on his face. Don ran a hand over his own face, partly from fatigue, partly to wipe away any expression that might have been there. "Yeah. Just tired. The techs see anything interesting?"

Colby shook his head. "No. They dusted the phone for prints – they'll run 'em through the lab, but it looks like there's only one set – they must be Charlie's." He regarded Don silently for a moment. "There's always the chance that he left under his own power. He could have taken a cab to a bus station and ditched the phone himself on the way."

"Just what are you saying?" Don asked sharply.

Colby took a half step back at the expression on his face, and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Nothing – just – maybe he needed to get away. Maybe he's just having a hard time adjusting."

Don tried to relax; tried to tame the anger that he knew was on his face. "Robin said the same thing. I'm not buying it, though. Dad told me his suitcase was still at home, empty. If he were going somewhere, why wouldn't he have stopped at home and packed some things? Besides, leaving that abruptly – it's too impulsive; it's not like Charlie."

Colby hesitated, then said gently, "We don't know that. It's been five years, Don. Maybe he's not thinking straight – he might have psychological issues – anything – we don't really know him anymore."

Don remembered the lost, fearful look on Charlie's face in the airport as he shied away from a fellow traveler who had gotten too close. His behavior had been a bit odd, and Don's gut contracted as the specter of mental illness loomed in his head. On the heels of the fear came anger; a repsonse to that unsettling emotion, and he snapped, "I don't believe that. We can't afford to believe that – we need to operate to a worst-case scenario. Until we get evidence to the contrary, we're treating this as foul play." Then he turned on his heel, and strode away.

* * *

Liz Warner and Nikki Betancourt stepped out of Nikki's car, with their eyes on the street. Although it was teeming with people, this section of L.A. was like being in another country – filled with citizens that didn't necessary like police. They were outsiders, Liz knew, and she felt it keenly here, perhaps more keenly than Nikki, who had spent her younger years in these tough neighborhoods. Nikki wore her cocky attitude like a cloak, as if it lent her a sense of entitlement, a sense of protection – as if she believed that her street sense gave her credibility, and generated trust among the people from rougher neighborhoods. What she hadn't learned yet was that the badge wiped a lot of that away, if not all of it. No one on the streets trusted a cop or a fed, no matter where they had started out in life.

So as Nikki swaggered forward through the bustling sidewalk, Liz had her back, following, eyes sweeping the street. Nikki was no fool, though, Liz discovered; Nikki was watching too, her cool gaze turning from side to side, appraising everyone who came their way. Glances, some openly curious, some hostile, some stone cold, flitted their way and bounced off like pebbles, skittering away, not to return.

They made their way to a set of glass double doors, reinforced with wire. Metal gates were pulled to the side; they would be drawn closed and locked at night. A white sign painted with bold red letters hung above the doors proclaiming, "Caballero Market – Fresh Produce." Nikki pushed through the door and hesitated, glancing at the checkout area, but Liz moved past her toward a middle-aged Latino man in a clean white apron, who was staring at them. "Romeo Caballero?" she asked, flashing her ID at him, as Nikki stepped up to her side. "FBI. We'd like a private word with you and your wife."

Caballero glanced from her to Nikki and back again, cagily. "What's this about?" His voice was smooth, nearly unaccented.

Liz shrugged, a one-shouldered gesture. "Okay, if you want to talk in public…" She let the words trail, and Caballero raised a hand.

"Okay, wait a minute." He turned to his left, scanning, and zeroed in on a petite woman of about forty, who was advancing toward them. "Nelida!"

She kept coming with an unhurried stride, suspicion on her proud face. '_Tough nut_,' thought Liz to herself, although anyone born into the Molina family either had a tough skin, or undoubtedly grew one.

"What is it?" Nelida asked, as she reached them. Her eyes flickered over them, mistrustful, cold. Her English was good, but her accent was apparent. She was Mexican born, Liz knew, along with her brother Oscar, leader of the cartel, and a younger brother, Raul, both of whom had been killed in the attack by the Espino clan.

Romeo led the way to a small back office, and sat behind the desk in a position of authority. Nelida sank into a chair next to him, her back ramrod straight, dignified, and they faced the agents, presenting a bland, united front. "How can I help you?" Romeo asked magnanimously, spreading his hands.

Nikki charged in, like a bull. "How's Frankie doin'?" she asked bluntly. No preface, no preamble, no recognition either in inflection or demeanor of Nelida's recent loss. Not that they were sorry that Oscar and Raul Molina were gone.

A shadow passed over Nelida's face, and Romeo scowled. "Frankie who?" he asked, although he knew full well who they were talking about.

Nikki sneered. "Your cousin, Francisco Molina."

Nelida's eyes were icy now. "We haven't seen him since my brothers were killed. In fact, I hadn't seen him for weeks before that."

"And that was a chance encounter at a friend's wedding," Romeo added, righteously. "We are legitimate business people, Nellie and I. We did not associate with Francisco." He spat out the name as if it were something foul tasting.

Nikki glanced at Liz, who stepped in smoothly. "You didn't answer the question. We didn't ask when you'd last seen him; we want to know where he is."

Nelida traded a glance with Romeo, and a brief flicker registered in their eyes. Romeo looked at them, resolutely. "We have no idea. Is there a problem?"

Liz stepped forward and handed them her card. "Just let him know that the FBI wants to ask him some questions. He isn't wanted for anything; we just need some information. It would be in his best interests to call. And one more thing – if you hear anything about this man -," she handed them a photo of Charlie Eppes, with his name printed on the back, along with her card, "- or see him anywhere, please call us. Thanks for your time."

They stepped out and closed the office door behind them. Nikki fell into step beside Liz, a scowl on her face. "They knew something," she muttered. "Did you see them look at each other when you asked them – for the second time – where Frankie was?"

"Yeah," said Liz, "but Charlie's picture drew a blank. I didn't see a reaction from either one of them when I handed them his picture, other than puzzled looks. They may know where Frankie is, or know how to reach him, but I don't think they know anything about Charlie."

They paused at the glass doors, took a breath, and resumed their don't-mess-with-me-I'm-the-heat attitudes, then stepped out into the street.

* * *

Inside the office, Nelida turned the picture over in her hands, looking at the name.

"Who is it?" asked Romeo.

"I don't know," she said. "But the name seems familiar…,"

He drummed his fingers on the desktop. "Should we call Frankie?"

Nelida sighed. "I don't know. I would rather not, but if word gets to him that the FBI came to us, and we didn't call to warn him they were looking for him…" She looked up at Romeo, who nodded.

"Yes, you're right. We should call."

She nodded back slowly. "Besides, he is family now – for better or for worse. The world seems to be against the Molinas these days – we who are left should help each other."

Romeo paused, holding the receiver, his finger over the dial pad. "Within reason. I have no wish to get involved in Frankie's business."

She smiled slightly, and patted his arm. "Within reason. Of course."

* * *

Alan sat, glued to the television screen, Larry Fleinhardt just as intent, beside him. The station was tuned to CNN, no less, and CNN's head anchor was speaking with gravity and a finely honed air of muted fascination, which he wore for every breaking story. Alan had seen his performances before, but never concerning such a personal subject.

"…and this breaking news, just in from Los Angeles." Video, soundless, flashed up on the screen behind him, footage of the press conference just held minutes ago by Regional Director Wright. Alan could just make out part of Don's face, as he stood in the background behind Wright, who had delivered his statement on the courthouse steps. "We are showing the conclusion of a local broadcast, just minutes ago. FBI West Coast Director Phillip Wright just issued an appeal citywide in Los Angeles for any information concerning Dr. Charles Eppes, who was reported missing at around 3:00 a.m. this morning. There are a couple of facets to this story that make it unique; I have with me one of our technical correspondents, Dr. Jerry Carosi from Washington, to explain. Jerry, fill us in on Dr. Eppes, and what the stir is surrounding this disappearance."

The camera feed flipped to Washington. Dr. Jerry Carosi looked much less a professor than he did a journalist, and Larry snorted derisively. "I never heard of him – I highly doubt he's a noted professor – more likely a journalistic mouthpiece for some noted professors."

"Shh," said Alan, and the camera zoomed in on Dr. Jerry, equally grave, as a photo of Charlie flashed up on the screen beside him. In it, Charlie was wearing a suit and tie, and the photo looked like it preceded his time in witness protection.

"You know, Colby told me Charles really hasn't changed much in five years," remarked Larry, ignoring Alan's attempt to silence him.

"Appearance-wise, anyway," Alan muttered under his breath, and Larry shot him a glance as Dr. Jerry began to speak.

"Thanks, Steve. With or without his disappearance, I think it would be safe to say that Dr. Eppes would still probably be in the news this evening. He is a noted mathematician, a professor at Cal Sci. Two days ago, two of his papers, which had actually been published a week or two ago, were made available to the scientific community. To say that they have created a buzz is an understatement. Some of the world's most noted mathematicians and scientists are saying this is some of the most significant math related to the world of physics since Einstein. Of course, it will take weeks, perhaps months or years to prove or disprove his assertions, but the initial feedback I'm getting from my colleagues-," that last word earned another snort from Larry – "is that there is nearly unanimous agreement that his concepts are highly significant. As you can imagine, the fact that he is now missing is creating quite a stir."

"Colleagues!" grumbled Larry. "That man's colleagues are actors and used car salesmen – not mathematicians or physicists."

"Shh."

The camera feed switched to the anchor. "Dr. Jerry Carosi. Thank you. There is yet another twist to this story that is perhaps the most interesting of all. Five years ago, Dr. Eppes was put into witness protection – a result of an attack when he was called in to consult and testify concerning the DEA case against Oscar Molina. Of course, we covered the hit on the Molina cartel right here on CNN just a little over two weeks ago. Dr. Eppes had just been released Friday, and was out for a walk in the city of Burbank Saturday when he was last heard from. At this point, however, neither the FBI nor the DEA is saying that there is any connection between the Molina cartel and Dr. Eppes' disappearance. In other news…,"

Alan hit mute as the story ended, and rubbed his face wearily. Larry regarded him somberly, and said softly, "You know that Don would have called us if anything significant had been found. He wouldn't let you hear it in a broadcast."

Alan sighed, and dropped his hand. "I know. It was probably foolish to watch it, but I can't stand sitting here with no news." He smiled, sadly. "It's completely illogical, but I'd rather hear something I already know, instead of nothing at all."

Larry nodded with a commiserating expression, and silence fell, broken only by the soft tick-tock of the grandfather clock.

* * *

End, Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

**WP**

**Chapter 10 – Into Thin Air**

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, and sorry for the wait - I just got back in from out of town. Here's 10... _

_Sunday, April 13, 2014, early evening_

* * *

Early Sunday evening, Francisco Molina leaned back in his easy chair with his hands behind his head, and watched the national news broadcast with his eyes narrowed. The bungalow was stifling; even though the temperature outside was a very comfortable seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit, Frankie refused to open the windows or draw the shades. The house was in a relatively private location, tucked away at the end of a street that dead-ended on the outskirts of Valle Vista. It belonged to Frankie's aunt, who had recently been moved to an elderly care facility. Frankie, as her nearest relative, had agreed to put the property up for sale, but he hadn't yet, and it was a good thing. He had been keeping a low profile for the last two weeks, ever since his cousins had been killed in Mexico, and the house had come in handy. It was one of only three houses on a street that bordered the edge of the desert – the last one on the road, and the nearest house was also vacant. It offered both privacy and anonymity – no one, especially the Espinos, would be able to connect it to Frankie.

Two weeks had been enough to dissipate the fear, and allow anger to percolate. Frankie wasn't so much angry that the better part of his family had been killed; it had effectively put him in charge. The problem was that the Molina drug import machine had been nearly destroyed, severely curtailing his L.A. operations. Frankie's piece of the business had been minor compared to Oscar's lucrative operation in Mexico, although it had still made him a wealthy man. Now, with his main source of drugs gone, he had been forced to make buys through other channels. Some of the best sources were now controlled by the Espino clan, but Frankie refused to deal with them. He had no real reason to think the Espinos would come after him, also – in fact, he was known and respected as a major dealer in the L.A. area, and some of his men had been approached by Espino sources with good offers. Still, Frankie didn't quite trust them, yet. He had sequestered himself in the little bungalow and had his men circulate the rumor that he'd left town, until he could properly assess the situation.

In the meantime, he'd had time to ponder what had happened, time to watch his profits declining by the day, drying up due to lack of good product, and he'd begun to get angry. He scratched idly at two day's growth of beard, and plucked at the sleeveless T-shirt that hung on his muscled, wiry frame. The news broadcast had caught his interest; it featured a familiar face – Charles Eppes. He had directed the hit on Dr, Eppes five years ago at Oscar's request, and it had been Frankie's own men who had shot the professor on his front lawn. He'd always wondered what had happened to the man – they never had gotten good information on whether he'd survived or not. There had been no press releases or articles concerning his death, or the shooting itself; the DEA had squelched them, but the professor was never seen or heard from again, after that. Now, it turned out that he had been in witness protection all this time, and the authorities had no doubt had released him after Oscar and Raul Molina had been killed.

What really piqued Frankie's interest, however, were the rumors circulating among his men that two of their own gang members, Carlos Abrego and Juan Laguna, had picked up a man the other day, and were still holding him. Carlos and Juan were not in Frankie's inner circle, and they rarely participated in Frankie's activities, but they swore allegiance to him. Frankie, in fact, had tried to stay way from them in recent weeks; he had become aware of their activities – they had been kidnapping middleclass working citizens, forcing them to withdraw from their ATM accounts, and then killing them, stupidly leaving their bodies for the authorities to find. Frankie had enough troubles without being connected to two men who were dabbling in kidnapping and murder, and those murders – five of them - had been featuring prominently on L.A. local news. The news had dubbed them the ATM Killer – singular, because the cops didn't know how many were involved.

Frankie rubbed his face again, as he listened to the reporter speak of the sensation that Dr. Eppes' papers were causing. He didn't know a thing about math or physics, but he had the sense that someone who had created something this important would demand a high ransom. If Carlos and Juan had indeed picked up Dr. Eppes, Frankie doubted that they knew what a potential gold mine they held. The dumb bastards were probably holding him to hit his ATM accounts, without considering that they might have a shot at a lot more money…

He straightened suddenly, and without turning from the television, yelled, "Hey, Ramon!"

The object of his summons lumbered into the room. Ramon Jimenez was a squat, powerful man, with lats so big that he walked with his arms extended out to the side a bit, like a bird with drooping wings. "What?"

"Where can we find Carlos and Juan these days?"

Ramon grunted. "I dunno. I'll ask around – my cousin will know – his sister is goin' with Juan."

Frankie nodded. "Do it – and find 'em quick. I want to pay 'em a visit."

Ramon nodded, and Frankie sat back, brooding, his fingers tented in front of his face. He wasn't quite sure where he was going with this himself, and he needed to be careful. He had gotten a call earlier that afternoon from his own cousin, Nelida, who had said that the feds were looking around for him; they wanted to ask him some questions, and had shown her a picture of Dr. Eppes. There was no doubt in Frankie's mind that the feds were trying to see if he had anything to with the doctor's disappearance. Yes, if he was going to get involved in this, thought Frankie to himself – and if the man that Carlos and Juan were rumored to be holding was actually Eppes - he was going to have to be very careful, but he had a feeling that the rewards would be worth the risk. The money involved could be great, and right now, he needed money. And of course, Eppes had long been an enemy of his family… He frowned. The DEA had been trying to run him out of town, unsuccessfully so far, but the pressure they were applying had stunted his business activities. What if they had brought Eppes in to help, as he had helped with their case against Oscar? It was yet one more reason to make sure he got control of this situation, got control of Dr. Eppes' fate, and quickly.

* * *

Monday morning, Don scanned the meager contents of Charlie's case file for the fiftieth time, and slumped in his chair. He was exhausted; he'd gotten only about three hours sleep the night before. He had at least gone home to sleep in his own bed, and shaved and got a shower and a fresh change of clothes. Then he was back in the office, poring over the bits of information that they had. It wasn't much – the lab hadn't found anything interesting concerning Charlie's cell phone, and nothing notable in the area where it was found. They still had no idea where Frankie Molina was; before Liz and Nikki's visit to the Caballeros, LAPD had checked his home – a residence in pricey Malibu. The housekeeper told them that Frankie had left town after the Molina cartel shooting in Mexico. The LAPD hadn't turned up anyone in Burbank who remembered seeing Charlie. A check with the cab companies revealed that none of them had taken Charlie as a fare. There was nothing – no clues, nothing to go on. It was as if Charlie had vanished into thin air.

"Don!" Colby's voice floated through the office, and Don's head jerked up. He could see Colby and David hustling toward him through his office door, and he stood as they hurried through it. "We got something," said Colby, a bit breathlessly. "Someone from West Federal Savings just called – they have a guy who goes through any discrepancies first thing each day from the ATM transactions the night before, or in this case, the transactions from the weekend. The guy reported that Charlie tried to make a withdrawal at an ATM over the weekend – they have video."

"Colby and I are going down there," added David.

Don grabbed his jacket, hanging on the back of his chair, his heart rate accelerating slightly. "I'm going with you." Finally, something – and it included video of Charlie, no less.

Twenty-two minutes later, they found themselves in a back office at the main branch of West Federals Savings, staring at a monitor over a technician's shoulder. The bank manager, John Ferguson, and the employee who had reported the discrepancy, a man named Bill, were there also, along with Lieutenant Walker, who met them at the bank.

"I go through the problem reports every Monday," said Bill. "I look at the videos for them and record what the ATM transaction said, then enter a report into the computer. All kinds of things happen, sometimes the equipment malfunctions – then if the customers come in to the bank to report it, we have a verified report to help our people deal with the issues. Dr. Eppes' case jumped out at me, because we don't get too many situations where a card or account has actually expired. Then I looked at the name, and it rang a bell, from the news, you know. So, I called Mr. Ferguson."

John Ferguson spoke up. "The first thing I did was call LAPD, and then I came back here to have our tech look up the video feed." He waved a hand at the monitor, and Don watched the clip roll for the tenth time. It was Charlie, and the sight of him had made Don's gut contract.

"What's odd," continued Ferguson, "is that Dr. Eppes knew his card had expired. He has an appointment at our Pasadena branch tomorrow to reactive his accounts and to get a new ATM card, among other things."

Gary Walker pursed his lips. "Maybe he thought he'd try it anyway, just in case."

Colby's face had turned grim. "Uh-uh," he said. He pointed at the screen, as the clip rolled yet again. "No. Look at him. He keeps looking off to his left – there's someone standing there. Besides, he tries the card more than once – why would he do that if he knew it wasn't supposed to work, and it got rejected the first time? I can see him trying it once, at the most. Plus, he looks like he's about to try it a third time, and then he stops and looks back to his left, and then he walks that way. I've seen video clips like this before." He stopped and looked at Don, hesitating; then said gently, "He's acting like the vics we've seen on other ATM video clips – the vics of the ATM Killer."

Don felt an almost debilitating icy sensation creep over him, and his throat turned dry. "We don't know that. We can't just surmise that." The others looked at him sympathetically, and he scowled. "Where is this ATM, anyway?"

"East L.A.," said Walker. "I've already got men on the scene – they're gonna go door to door at the businesses around there and see if anyone saw Charlie there that evening. But it was late, almost eleven p.m., and that area shuts up tight for the night." He cleared his throat. "I agree, Don," he said, although Don knew that Walker was only humoring him. "We can't conclude that it's the ATM Killer. The good news is, as of eleven Saturday night, we know Charlie was alive and apparently unharmed."

Don nodded, and for the sake of his own argument, tried to look unperturbed as he turned back to look at the video. Inside, however, a feeling of dread was growing, and as he watched Charlie insert the card into the machine yet again, he wondered if that would be the last time he saw his brother alive.

* * *

Charlie pushed himself into a sitting position, slowly. He ached from lying on the hard floor, and he was weak and shaky from hunger. The pitch-blackness in the room made it impossible to tell what time it was, what day it was, and he cursed himself for not buying a watch with an illuminated dial. Not that knowing the time would help, but somehow, it seemed to matter. He felt as though he had been there for days – his water had run out, and he was thirsty and ravenously hungry. His wrists felt raw – he tried not to pull on the handcuffs, but they still chafed. He could feel hope waning, and he was beginning to actually wish that his captors would return. Maybe they would bring him food and water – it would be a relief simply to see light again, to know what time it was…

A faint sound hit his ear and he caught his breath and turned his head slightly, listening in the darkness. Another sound, then voices began to materialize, they stopped, but now Charlie picked up approaching footsteps, and his heart began to thump. Had he really just been wishing that Carlos and Juan would return? Now that their return was a reality, he suddenly wished for the opposite. He felt for the post near him and tensed, ready to pull himself up to his feet.

The doorknob rattled with the metallic scraping of a key; it sounded loud and grating after the silence, and Charlie winced in pain as the switch was flicked on and light hit his eyes. He closed his eyelids tightly – he couldn't help it – even though he was aware that Carlos and Juan were moving to stand in front of him. He blinked, and blinked again, trying to acclimate his eyes to the harsh fluorescent light. He finally managed to get his eyelids open, to find himself staring into the face of Juan, who had squatted in front of him. Carlos was standing over him, and both his captors were studying him. As Charlie looked up and met their eyes, Carlos reached for his gun.

* * *

End, Chapter 10

_A/N: I make you wait, only to hit you with a cliffie. The good news is, you shouldn't have to wait quite so long for the update._


	11. Chapter 11

**WP**

**Chapter 11 – From Bad to Worse**

_A/N: Many, many thanks for your reviews and comments._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Monday, April 14, 2014, morning_

* * *

Carlos eased his gun out of his jacket, and Charlie swallowed. At that moment, his nose caught the faint whiff of food, and his stomach contracted almost painfully. It was odd, he thought detachedly, that he was about to be shot, and all he could think about was food.

Juan wrinkled his nose. "He smells bad."

"That's the bucket," said Carlos. He re-holstered his pistol, grabbed the plastic pail and stepped out of the room, and reappeared a few moments later, the bucket empty, rinsed, and dripping with water. Charlie watched a drop land on the floor, and unconsciously licked his cracked lips.

"You were right," said Juan. "It was the bucket. We should prob'ly get his jacket off, though, an' hang it on a chair so it doesn't get too wrinkled." He reached into a duffel bag and handed Charlie a bottle of water, and Charlie stared at it, mesmerized for an instant, before grabbing it and quickly twisting off the lid. The water tasted so good it almost brought tears to his eyes, and might have, if they weren't so dry.

"Better take it easy," advised Carlos. "You'll puke it back up." As if he hadn't spoken to Charlie, he continued his conversation with Juan. Charlie was only half listening, immersed in the sensation of cool liquid sliding down his throat. "He'll need a shave, too."

That sentence got Charlie's attention, and he began to drink more slowly, trying to listen. Why would they care how he looked? Juan held out his hand. "Put your hands out. We're gonna take the cuffs off, but don't try anything." Carlos took out his pistol again, for emphasis.

Charlie drained the last drops of water before complying, and Juan grinned as he unlocked the cuffs. "Good, huh? If you do what we ask, you'll get more, and you'll get some food."

Carlos was frowning. "His wrists look bad." Charlie looked down; his wrists were red-purple, bruised and raw from the metal cuffs. Carlos spoke gruffly. "Stand up."

Charlie complied without question – to stand up without having to drag a chain up a post, to stand straight and put his shoulders back – it was something he'd longed to do for the last – how many hours? He surreptitiously glanced at his watch as he stood; it displayed the date and time. Monday? It was Monday? Ten-fifteen. AM or PM? AM. He'd been a captive for roughly forty hours. He remembered statistics stating that most missing persons who were gone greater than forty-eight hours were usually not found alive. He didn't have much more time to reflect on that fact, because by that time he'd reached his feet, and a huge, unexpected wave of dizziness washed over him. He sensed the room receding and two powerful sets of hands on his arms, then he was stumbling for the table, supported by the hands, and set down firmly in a chair. He leaned forward on the table, his forehead on crossed arms, breathed until the room stopped spinning, and then slowly sat up, feeling queasy. It had been over two days since he'd eaten anything, and the lack of food was having an effect.

Carlos had taken a chair across from him and he rested his gun on the table, and leaned forward. "You tol' us you had an appointment at the bank tomorrow, to get a new ATM card. You're gonna keep that appointment, and Juan here is gonna go with you. You can tell them Juan is your brother. He'll have a gun – if you try anything, you'll be shot, and so will the people around you. You're gonna reactivate your accounts or whatever it is that you have to do, then you're gonna pull out as much cash as they'll let you take in one shot. Then you'll walk out of there with Juan. You got it?"

Charlie stared at him. "I don't know if that's a good idea." His voice sounded rusty, huskier than usual, and he cleared his throat. "What if word is out that I'm missing? Won't the person I'm meeting with be suspicious if we show up?"

Carlos shook his head. "I ain't seen the news, but someone tol' us that you were on it – that the cops are looking for you. That's why you're gonna call the bank, an' tell 'em it was all a big mistake – you jus' went away for the weekend, and you plan to keep your appointment tomorrow. Tell 'em to keep it quiet – that you don' need any more press than you already got. You make that call, clean up a little, and we'll give you more water and some food."

Charlie's heart quickened. The call would be an opportunity to let someone know he was still alive. Carlos held out a 'burner' – a prepaid cell phone, used on the streets because it was hard to trace – and Charlie took it, trying not to appear too eager. Carlos pushed a piece of paper with a list of phone numbers toward him – the various branches of West Federal Savings. "Call the branch where you have the appointment," said Carlos. "No tricks. You try to screw around; we'll shoot you on the spot. After you dial, put the phone on speaker. We're gonna listen in."

Charlie nodded and dialed the number for the Pasadena branch, then hit the speaker button. His mind was racing. Could he somehow let them know he was in trouble, without alerting his captors?

"_West Federal Savings, Pasadena branch. How can I help you?"_ said a pleasant voice.

"I need to speak to someone concerning an account reactivation," said Charlie.

"_One moment, please." _

Music came on the line, briefly, then a cheerful female voice drifted from the phone. "_This is Sheri, in accounts. How can I help you?"_

"I just need to verify an appointment for tomorrow to reactivate some accounts," said Charlie. "Charles Eppes."

"_Oh! Mr. Eppes!"_ Sheri sounded surprised and flustered. "_I – we – well, it's been all over the news that you were missing. Are you - okay?"_

Charlie tried to sound embarrassed, selecting his words carefully, praying that she would read between the lines. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine. It was all a big misunderstanding." He glanced uncertainly at Carlos, who moved his hand in a rolling motion as if to say, '_Come on, spit it out_.'

Charlie continued. "If you don't mind, please don't make a big deal out of this – in fact, if you could keep it quiet, I'd appreciate it. It's, uh, rather embarrassing. In light of all the press, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be keeping my appointment."

Sheri' voice went from bewildered to relieved. "_Oh, certainly Mr. – or, it's 'doctor,' isn't it? Dr. Eppes. I'm looking forward to meeting you. We'll see you tomorrow at ten a.m. Thanks for calling, and I'm glad everything is okay_."

"Thank you," said Charlie, feeling suddenly deflated as he disconnected. It sounded as though Sheri had bought his explanation without reservation, which meant that she probably wouldn't alert anyone, wouldn't ask any questions, wouldn't call LAPD or the FBI…

Carlos was nodding at him, satisfied, and he took the phone away, while Juan set another bottle of water on the table, and then helped Charlie out of his jacket, draping it neatly on the back of the chair. Carlos handed him a battery operated razor, and had him shave. When he was done, Carlos surveyed him for a moment, then nodded. "He'll look okay. He'll need to shave again before he goes, and we'll need to bring some deodorant."

Then Juan set down a fast food sack. The burger inside was lukewarm and the bun starting to dry on the edges, but Charlie didn't hesitate, - he unwrapped it and bit in, and it tasted like the best thing he had ever eaten. Even the act of eating was demoralizing, however. He was doing everything they wanted him to do, completely under their control. The sense of powerlessness was starting to eat away at his resolve, at his sense of self.

He chided himself mentally for the thought – he was doing what he had to, to survive, he told himself. That wasn't weakness; it was strength. Still, when they led him back to the post, putting the cuffs around one ankle this time and locking the other half to the chain around the post in order to spare his wrists, he felt completely and utterly helpless. They left him with his bucket and two bottles of water and departed, shutting out the light, immersing him once more in darkness, and he sent a whispered plea to Sheri, whoever she was. "Please figure it out – please call someone, anyone…" The words floated off into a void, and left him sitting alone in the blackness.

* * *

Alan sat at the kitchen table and sighed, his coffee untouched, staring sadly at the two binders in front of him. Larry had been kind enough to get him copies of Charlie's papers, the ones that were causing the stir, and Alan had tried his best to read them. He could follow the gist of the text, thanks to Larry's summary, but the equations were well beyond him, even with his engineering background. "It seems ironic," he said heavily, "that Charlie finally achieved what we all expected him to do, and he's not here to see it."

Joanie reached across the kitchen table and patted his hand. "Don't you give up on him – not now – not after holding out hope for him for all these years," she admonished. "He's out there somewhere – you have to believe that. They'll find him."

Alan's eyes lifted to hers, and then strayed back to the cover of one binder, his gaze fixing on the line of letters that formed his youngest son's name. "I hope you're right," he said softly. "I hope you're right."

The phone rang, and he reached abruptly across the table to grab the handset, almost upsetting his coffee cup in the process. "Hello."

"_Dad_."

Don's voice came over the line, and Alan swallowed hard and hit the speaker button. "Yes – what is it? Did you find him?" Joanie's eyes widened and she reached across the table again and grasped his hand.

"_No – but his bank called. Charlie tried to take money out of an ATM late Saturday night – they have video footage_."

Alan stared at Joanie for a moment before he could find his voice. "He looked okay?"

"_Yeah, he seemed fine, but -,"_

"But what?"

"_Dad, we think it's possible that he's being held by the ATM Killer, or someone like him."_

Alan was stricken silent, and Don's voice continued, miserably. "_We don't know for sure, and the bank isn't supposed to say anything, but I know how these things work sometimes, and in case word gets out, I didn't want you to hear it on the news."_

"I understand," said Alan, and his voice sounded foreign, even to himself. "Thanks for letting us know."

"_Us?"_

"Joanie's here with me."

"_Oh, that's good, Dad. I'm glad she is. Take care. I'll keep you posted if anything changes."_

They exchanged good-byes, and Alan, filled with new dread, disconnected the call almost absently, his eyes fixed again on the cover of the binder, as if the mere sight of his son's name would prove that he still existed, as if it would bring him back.

* * *

Ramon Jimenez, Frankie's right hand man, sat behind the wheel of his car, his short, thick, muscular body nearly completely filling the space between the steering wheel and the driver's seat. Pick Cordera, so nicknamed because he was rumored to have once killed a man with an ice pick, spoke up from the passenger seat, as their eyes tracked the movements of two men. Carlos Abrego and Juan Laguna were leaving the building – an old warehouse, which looked abandoned. "Waddya think they were doin' in there?" asked Pick.

Jimenez grunted. "I'll tell you what they were doin'. I'll bet you any money they got the professor in there."

Pick shifted in his seat. "So mebbe we should ask 'em, huh?" He had thin, liver colored lips, and they split his face in a hideous smile.

"No, you dumb ass," retorted Ramon. "We don't need trouble. Let 'em go. We'll go in and look after they're gone." A smile played about his own lips; it was a much more attractive smile than Pick's, but the look in his eyes turned it ugly. "If we find him, we'll jus' take him, and bring him to Frankie. Carlos and Juan won't know who took him, or where he went, an' they'll be afraid to ask around."

They waited until Carlos' van pulled out and away, got out of the car, and headed for the warehouse.

* * *

Carlos dropped Juan Laguna off at his apartment, and Juan bounded up the stairs, his movements filled with a mixture of wild anticipation and nervous energy. Carmen, his girlfriend, could hear him coming, and was waiting as he pushed through the door. He strode over to her, swept her into a big hug, and spun her around.

"What are you doin'?" she sputtered, laughing, coming awkwardly out of the turn.

"Baby, we're gonna be rich!" crowed Juan. "After tomorrow, we're gonna be rich. We're gonna blow this town, go down to Durango, live in style."

Carmen leaned forward into him, resting her arms on his shoulders and looking into his face. She smiled, but her eyes were wary. "That's great, hon, but where we gonna get the rest of the money?"

Juan looked over his shoulder, a reflexive gesture, because no one was there to hear him. Still, he dropped his voice. "Look, you know I tol' you that Carlos and I had some bizness ventures. We been saving up."

"Yeah." She nodded, but her expression was still doubtful. "You said it would take you a few more months to save up enough to move." In truth, although Juan hadn't given her the particulars about his and Carlos' 'business ventures' she had her own suspicions – the fact that most of their business was carried out in the middle of the night made her doubt that it was legitimate. She loved Juan, though, loved their dream – to make it big in American dollars, and to move back to Mexico with enough to live on for the rest of their lives, on Mexico's lower cost of living. That was the plan – they would move to her family's town of Durango… it was enough to make her push any doubts about what Juan was doing into the back of her mind, enough to keep her from asking questions.

"I know," said Juan. "But we got an opportunity to finish this off – tomorrow." His eyes gleamed with excitement. "Listen, baby, you can't tell this to anyone, but we stumbled on this guy – he has a ton of money. We – uh – convinced him that he needs to come with us tomorrow and pull some out of his account at the bank."

She stared at him, her smile faltering. "Convinced him – how?"

Juan lowered his voice even further, grinning with excitement. "You know that professor dude? Someone said he's been on the news. Well, me and Carlos picked him up."

Her face dropped. "What?"

He looked annoyed. "Oh, come on, babe, you gotta know we ain't been workin' at a gas station for this money. You didn't care before."

She held up a hand. "I didn't know what you were doin' and didn't wanna know. I thought you were workin' on strippin' cars or somethin'. You been robbin' people all this time?"

He hesitated, and she saw something dark in his eyes – something she hadn't seen before, at least when he was talking to her. Then his expression changed, and a wheedling tone crept into his voice. "Come on, we ain't gonna hurt him, ain't even gonna put a dent in all the money this guy's gotta have. He won't even miss it. An' we'll be done – I won't have to do it no more."

She held up both hands this time and turned her face away, her mouth tight. "Don't even tell me – why are you tellin' me this? I don't wanna know. Jus' do your thing an' keep me out of it."

He grabbed her hands and grinned, then kissed her. "Okay – you just start packin.' We're leavin' day after tomorrow."

* * *

Charlie sat in the darkness for only moments, when he heard voices again – then footsteps. He frowned, wondering what Carlos and Juan were doing back so soon. Had they changed their minds? The voices and footsteps came closer, then receded, then approached again, and Charlie's frown deepened. It sounded almost as if they were searching for something…

A voice spoke, just outside the door. "Maybe he's in here." The voice sounded different, and Charlie's heart jumped – they were not Juan or Carlos – and they were looking for him. It had to be LAPD – or FBI – who else would it be?

"In here!" he yelled, his heart pounding. "I'm in here!"

There was a bang and a rattle, the sound of a foot against the flimsy office door. Someone kicked again; it flew open, and Charlie clambered awkwardly to his feet as the light was switched on. He squinted against it, trying to make out the figures that were moving toward him, and as he took in their appearance, his heart thumped faster, and his head spun with confusion. They didn't look like police or agents, unless they were undercover.

The squat stocky man grinned at him, showing a gold incisor. "Professor Eppes. Last time I saw you, I was shootin' at you." The other man laughed, baring an expanse of gums behind thin lips.

Charlie's heart lurched, and he took an involuntary step backward.

The stocky man's grin broadened. "Five years is a long time, but as I recall, I think I hit you." He stepped closer and put his broad face in Charlie's, backing him up until he couldn't go any further, his hot breath in Charlie's face. "I always wanted to know – did it hurt?"

* * *

End, Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

**WP**

**Chapter 12 - Downhill**

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_A/N: I am still writing this one, and it looks like it will come in at a few more chapters than twenty, but probably no more than twenty-five. Many thanks for the reviews, all._

_Monday, April 14, 2014, afternoon_

* * *

They put him in the trunk. Things were definitely going downhill, Charlie thought, jerking his head away as the skinny man, whose name apparently was 'Pick,' tried to apply duct tape to his mouth. It was a bad move – the stocky man, sweating and sporting a bruised shin from their attempts to subdue Charlie, was already irritated, and Charlie's resistance earned him some further abuse. The stocky man grabbed him by the hair and rapped his head – hard – against the side of the trunk. Charlie saw stars and went limp for a moment, and by the time he regained his senses they had the tape on his mouth, and he caught a fleeting last glimpse of the alley behind the warehouse, before a blindfold was put over his eyes and the trunk slammed shut. He'd been trussed so that he couldn't move his limbs – his feet tied together and pulled up tight behind him, secured to his tied wrists, which were also bound behind him, ropes crossed over his shoulders. It was supremely uncomfortable, and made it impossible to move his legs and arms – impossible to kick out a taillight or make a noise, or otherwise draw attention to himself. Carlos and Juan, at least, had let him sit in the back of their van under his own power.

Yes, things were most decidedly going downhill, and not just because the riding arrangements were more uncomfortable. He was now in the hands of men from the Molina cartel – insiders, apparently, because the bigger man, at least, had been in on his shooting five years before. Charlie surmised that the Molina thugs had no association with Juan and Carlos, because they apparently had had to search for him at the warehouse, and when they found him, they had no key to unlock the cuffs – they had to use a bolt cutter to cut him free. Because of that, he suspected that Juan and Carlos had no knowledge that he'd been taken, and Charlie found himself wishing that they were still his captors.

At least with them, there had been hope on the horizon; Juan and Carlos had planned to take him out in public to the bank the next day – it would have been a chance to escape. Charlie had already decided that gun or no gun, he was not going into that bank with Juan. He had planned to make a break for it as soon as he was out on the street. Now, even that opportunity, dangerous as it was, had been taken away. There was no telling what the Molina gang had in store for him.

He racked his brains, trying to remember the latest information he'd read on the cartel. He knew that Oscar and Raul and most of their lieutenants had been killed in Mexico. He remembered that their cousin, a man named Francisco Molina, had run the L.A. sector of the empire. Was Frankie still in charge? Charlie had skimmed over the report that the DEA had provided him on the cartel killings – so excited, so rattled by the news that he was finally getting out of WP that he hadn't read it thoroughly. He did remember that the DEA thought that the Molina presence in L.A. was much diminished, that their operation was a shadow of what it once was, and it was deemed not to be a threat. Well, they'd figured wrong, thought Charlie to himself - it _was_ a threat – apparently whoever ran it now wanted revenge. He hoped it wasn't Frankie; he knew that Francisco Molina was cruel, and reportedly enjoyed torturing his enemies. If he was going to be killed, and things certainly looked that way, Charlie could only hope it would be swift.

The car bounced over some railroad tracks, and he was jolted uncomfortably. Perhaps the two thugs were on their way to kill him right now – although why they wouldn't have done it at the warehouse, Charlie had no idea. Maybe they wanted to hide his body where it wouldn't be found, maybe they were going to tie a rock to his feet and throw him in the bay… He could imagine the dark water, his lungs bursting with the need for oxygen, and suddenly he was gasping for air; the duct tape that restricted breathing and the blackness produced by the blindfold and the confines of the trunk, too much like the terrifying scene in his head. He was rigid, his chest heaving with the physical manifestations of panic, and for a moment, he blacked out. When he came to, he was breathing normally, and as he began to regain consciousness he lifted his head, and re-discovered that it was only thing he could move. He was still bound, and judging by the motion, still in the trunk. He laid there in that position for a moment, his body taut, then he eased his head back down with a small moan.

* * *

Sheri Johnson sighed as she settled on the sofa with her microwaved frozen dinner, and flicked on the early evening news. It had been a slow day at the Pasadena branch; Mondays usually were, in the accounts department anyway. The tellers at the windows at had been busy handling small transactions, but Sheri had only had a few appointments that day. Tuesday promised to be much busier, and more interesting. She was dying to meet Dr. Eppes, after all the fuss in the press the past few days.

"How embarrassing," she said aloud, as she popped a bite of chicken into her mouth. Her dinner was a low-calorie entree; at twenty-six she was pretty and svelte, and she watched her figure religiously. She grinned to herself as she thought of how mortified the professor must have been to come back from a weekend trip to find the entire city of L.A. searching for him – and the entire country aware of his absence via the national news. She shook her head as two local newscasters came on and started recapping the top stories of the day. How could Dr. Eppes not have been aware that everyone was looking for him? "Must be a real space-cadet," she muttered, and took another bite.

She stopped in mid-chew as the woman announcer said, "and we have the latest in the search for L.A.'s own Professor Charles Eppes, missing since Saturday. Stay tuned for the top stories of the day, coming your way after these messages."

Sheri frowned, and slowly started chewing again. The way the announcer had said that, it almost made it sound as though the professor was still missing. Of course, she reflected, they always made the little summaries at the start of the news program sound as interesting as possible – teasers to make the viewer flicking through the competing news channels stop and watch their broadcast. She wondered how they were going to spin the fact that the professor had returned and it had all been a big mistake, and waited impatiently for the commercial segments to end and the broadcast to begin.

Dr. Eppes' story, while still a hot topic, was actually second on the news that day; it was preceded by the coverage of a nasty accident on I-10. Sheri smiled again as the professor's picture came on – he was kind of cute, she thought to herself, with those big dark eyes and that curly hair. She was brought out of her musings as the male half of the announcer duo said, "LAPD has been making some strides in the investigation of the disappearance of Dr. Charles Eppes, who has been missing since Saturday evening. His disappearance has caused international stir, coming so soon after the publications of two papers that the scientific community has labeled some of the most significant mathematical works of the century. Our source at LAPD declined to say what those developments are; only that they have some new evidence and the investigation is proceeding. We have information from another source, however, that the professor's disappearance may be linked to the notorious ATM killer. Tune in later tonight for an in-depth story on the network news show, U.S. Nighttime."

The announcer moved on to the next topic, and Sheri's brow furrowed. "They didn't even say he'd turned up," she said aloud, with indignation. "That report has to be old news." Didn't they know? What kind of inept news crew was she watching, anyway? She impatiently flicked a button on the remote and changed the channel, to catch the end of the same story on another station. They too, said nothing about Dr. Eppes being found, and Sheri's frown deepened. Were they holding off on announcing it for some reason? "That's misleading the American public," she declared to the empty room, righteously. "I don't care how much of a big shot you are, that's just wrong."

At the same time, she was slightly pleased – she had inside knowledge that no one else had – at least not the local networks. The thought crossed her mind, fleetingly, that the national networks would probably pay to get that scoop – but she was sure her job at the bank would be forfeit; employees were not allowed to discuss the matters of their patrons at any time, and especially not in a public forum. She took another bite, her mind still turning, and stiffened as a thought occurred to her. What if the man who called wasn't the professor? They'd said something about the ATM killer - what if it was someone posing as him, trying to get access to his accounts? "Then how would he know about Dr. Eppes' appointment?" she argued with herself. Still, the thought was unsettling, and set off an entirely new realm of speculation. What if the professor had been kidnapped by someone close enough to him to have access to his appointment book, his account information? Maybe she should call LAPD…

She sat there, stewing for a moment. The professor, if it actually had been him on the line, had asked her specifically to keep his appointment quiet – but if it really had been him and his disappearance truly was just a misunderstanding, then LAPD must know he was back by now. She wouldn't be telling them anything new. Then why wouldn't it have been on the news? "So the news channels can spin this out as long as possible," she told herself, "at least until the late news tonight." It was an interesting story, after all.

She grabbed the remote and hit the back arrows – the nice thing about her satellite service was that it ran through a DVR, and she regularly recorded the news. The back arrows rewound to the story on Dr. Eppes, and she found what she was looking for – a banner at the bottom listing a toll-free phone number for anyone with information on Dr. Eppes. She jotted the number down and sat back to finish her dinner. No rush to call, she thought to herself, as she switched the recording back to live news, just in time to catch the weather report. The police probably already knew what she was going to tell them, anyway.

* * *

Carmen Moreno sat on the edge of her shabby sofa in her shabbier apartment, waiting for the evening news to come on, her hands twisted; her stomach in a knot. She really wished now that she hadn't eaten the chicken and rice that had been her dinner, but it was too late for that. She'd had to force herself to eat - the more she thought about what her boyfriend Juan had told her about 'picking up' Dr. Eppes, the more upset she'd become.

She'd always suspected that Juan and Carlos had been into something illegal – they spent all night out, after all, and never talked about where they worked. She thought maybe they worked at an illegal chop shop, stripping cars – she knew that Juan had worked at one, for a while. The thought that they might be dealing drugs had crossed her mind, too, but she'd never asked. Juan was putting together a sum of money that would be small by U.S. standards, but was a modest fortune in Mexico. They were going to buy a nice little house in Durango, get married; raise their kids…

"Damn it, Juan," she muttered, as the news broadcast came on. Stolen cars and drug dealing were bad enough, but she'd never thought Juan would stoop to kidnapping. She had the uncomfortable sense that she didn't really know him – that she was planning to marry someone who had some darker secrets than she'd imagined.

The broadcast started, and she waited impatiently through the opening commercial segments, then watched intently as they started into the segment on Dr. Eppes, her heart sinking with every word. Juan had no idea how big this was – he never watched the news. He and Carlos had kidnapped a man who was being hunted nationally – how on earth did they think they were going to pull this off?

The worst was yet to come, however. Carmen already had a lump in her throat, and when the announcer said, "We have it from a reliable source that the LAPD thinks the professor's disappearance is linked to the ATM killer," she gasped, and turned pale. Juan had insisted that they weren't going to hurt the man, but she knew in her heart from the look in his eyes that he had been lying. _Madre Dios_, she was engaged to a murderer. She didn't want to admit it, but deep inside, she knew – the nights out, the fact that some of Juan's clothes had disappeared – soiled with blood, no doubt… She moaned, and then suddenly leapt to her feet and ran as fast as she could for the bathroom, barely making it there before she lost her dinner.

She sank onto the cracked linoleum floor, leaning against the bathroom wall, too shocked and sickened for tears. She should tell the police, she knew – it could save the man's life – but that meant giving up her dream, all that money, her chance to go to live with her family, and Juan… She could pretend; pretend she hadn't heard him talk about the professor, pretend she hadn't seen the broadcast, and go on with their plan, their life together – but how long could she lie to herself, when each night she would know that she lay next to a murderer, that a killer was the father of her children? She moaned again, and put her face in her hands.

* * *

The FBI agent manning the information line was a junior agent, new to the L.A. office, but he smart; he was reliable. Those things, he knew. What he didn't know was that he'd already been pegged as a promising candidate for future promotion by Regional Assistant Director Don Eppes. Phone duty wasn't the most exciting assignment in the world, but when it involved the Regional Assistant Director's brother, the junior agent knew it carried a little more importance than normal. Therefore, he paid meticulous attention to each call, and followed up with the investigating agents, even though it was not required that he do so – that job really belonged to the SAC, David Sinclair. He knew, however, that Sinclair appreciated the extra effort and the extra tracking – no one wanted to screw up on this case. In fact, the junior agent noticed that some of the agents who had been there a while, who'd had a chance to work with the legendary Charlie Eppes, seemed quite emotionally invested in this case, nearly as much as Don Eppes was. It was almost as if they'd lost a fellow agent, and that alone was enough to convince the junior agent that he needed to be on his game.

While he was certain he was doing a good job with the phone calls, it still had been a bit boring – mostly because none of the information to date had yielded anything significant. Therefore, he wasn't really expecting much when a female voice came on the line, at about seven p.m. He listened for a moment, his eyes widening, then fumbled for a pen. "Just a minute, ma'am," he said politely, trying to hide the excitement in his voice. "Can you repeat that for me?"

* * *

Charlie felt hands at the ropes behind him, and sensed, rather than felt, the sharp blade of the knife. Two deft cuts and the tautness of the ropes released, allowing his body to relax, and he groaned aloud at the pain that shot through his joints as they were allowed to move for the first time in hours. Hands were still working at the ropes, and he grunted in pain as another set of hands stripped the tape from his face. The blindfold was left in place, and he was pulled roughly to his feet. Those feet were numb and he nearly collapsed, but strong hands held him under the arms until he could stand, then pulled him stumbling out of the room, where he'd been unceremoniously dumped, hours before.

He didn't go far – down a hallway, he guessed, and through a doorway into another room. The hands left his arms, and then someone pulled the blindfold from his head, roughly, taking a few strands of hair with it. Charlie winced at the sensation and the light, although there wasn't much of it. The room was bare except for a wooden table and chairs, and was lit by an overhead light – it looked like it might have been intended to be a bedroom in a moderately sized house, but the lack of furniture stripped it of personality. In fact, the only decorations that remained in the room were patterned short draperies, which hung across the window at the edge of the room. The window itself was wide but short, and set high in the wall, in the style of some older homes from the sixties and seventies. The drapes on the high, short windows were drawn, and from the lack of light around them, it was now dark outside. The hardwood floor was bare and slightly scuffed, although it appeared as though it might have been nicely finished once. Charlie didn't see all that as much as sense it in his peripheral vision, because his attention was taken by the man facing him.

The man had slightly longish hair cut in layers, and a goatee – both beard and hair were black, on a lean face dominated by a hooked nose and sharp black eyes. He was dressed casually in a sleeveless shirt that looked like designer streetwear, and it accentuated the ropy muscles in his arms and showed off the tattoo on his right shoulder – the Molina cartel emblem; a stylized snake coiled around a dagger. A heavy gold chain hung from his neck, and a diamond glittered in one ear. He was about four inches taller than Charlie was, and he looked down at him with a smile laced with derision. Frankie Molina – Charlie had seen his picture before, and knew it was him, without being told. He hadn't thought his heart could sink any further, but it did.

Molina smiled. "Dr. Eppes. We finally meet. Do you know who I am?"

Charlie's throat felt dry, and he had to swallow before he could reply. "Francisco Molina, I presume."

Molina's smile remained, but it dimmed a bit, ominously. "Do you realize the trouble you have caused my family?"

Charlie hesitated, trying to frame a reply, but apparently, the question was rhetorical, because Molina continued, his smile fading completely. His eyes flashed with anger, and he pointed a finger at Charlie's chest. "I hold you responsible for my cousins' deaths. If you and your friends at the DEA hadn't issued warrants for their arrests in the U.S., they would not have had to move back to Mexico. If they were still living here, the Espinos would not have dared to attack like they did in Monterrey, and Oscar and Raul would still be alive. For that, you will pay."

The smile returned to his face, and he stepped closer. "You will die for what you did – it is only just, and although we will arrange it so no one can link your death to us, everyone will know. It will send a message to all that the Molina cartel is still powerful, and we deal with our enemies. First, though, you are going to help us be reimbursed financially for our losses. We will send a message to your family, and demand that they raise twenty million dollars for your safe return."

Charlie stared at him. "Twenty million dollars? There is no way they could raise that much money, and even if they could, my brother wouldn't negotiate with kidnappers."

Molina seemed unperturbed. "You underestimate yourself, professor. Your family will receive much of that money from the scientific community – they will want a man of your fame back unharmed -," his smiled deepened, "- or relatively unharmed."

Charlie shook his head slightly, and opened his mouth to protest. The scientific community didn't care – the lack of response to his papers had made that clear. The longer Molina thought he could get something in exchange for him, however, the better; it would give the police more time to find him. It was best to let the man labor under his delusions. Charlie shut his mouth again, as Molina jerked his head toward a wooden chair. "Sit," he commanded, and Charlie hesitated, then did as he was told.

Sitting, he could see that one of the men who had been standing behind him was holding a camera. "We are going to take some pictures of you, to send as proof that we are holding you," said Molina. He shoved that day's _Las Vegas Sun_ into Charlie's hands, and Charlie caught a glimpse of his own image halfway down the front page of the newspaper. Molina impatiently positioned it in his hands so that Charlie was holding the paper's banner toward the camera. "Look at the camera."

Charlie looked up; he couldn't see the article from that position, and was left to wonder why on earth his picture was in a Las Vegas newspaper, and how Molina had come by a Las Vegas newspaper to begin with. They'd driven for a while after leaving the warehouse, but not long enough to get to Vegas. Then he remembered his episode of claustrophobia in the trunk. He'd passed out for a moment – or so he had assumed. Maybe he'd lost more time than he thought. Maybe he _was_ in Vegas.

A camera flashed, catching him with what, he was sure, was a confused expression on his face, and flashed again. A man grabbed the paper from his hands, and the blindfold was pulled back over his head, covering his eyes. Hands seized his arms, and he was walked out of the room, back down the hallway, then carefully led down some wooden stairs. At the bottom, the floor was hard; he sensed that it was concrete. He was in a basement, somewhere. His captors backed him up against a metal beam – a support for the floor above, and his hands were cuffed behind him, with the cuffs around the pole. Someone gave him a push on the shoulder, and he sank to a sitting position on the concrete, his back to the beam. They left him that way, still wearing the blindfold, sitting in darkness.

* * *

End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

**WP**

**Chapter 13 – Two Women**

_A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers, especially that faithful band who comment on nearly every chapter. I am reading every one, and they are very much appreciated. I'm not doing a good job of sticking to regular days, but I am trying to get out two chapters a week. Even though they are written, I go over them and sense-check them against what has been written later, and try to polish them up. Thanks for your patience and the feedback. This one's a longer one - SG_

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Monday, April 14, 2014, evening_

* * *

Don glanced up as Justin Sommers burst into his office, wide-eyed. Ordinarily, he might have given the junior agent a bit of a hard time for not knocking, just to rib him. Justin was one of their better new people, and had a lot of potential, which was why Don had assigned him to man the information hot line they'd given to the public, to field tips on Charlie's disappearance. The expression on Justin's face, however, made him hold his tongue and he felt his heartbeat quicken, just a bit. Colby and David appeared over Justin's shoulder; they'd apparently seen Justin making a beeline for Don's office.

"Sir!" exclaimed Justin. "I just got a call from a woman who says she talked to Charlie! She's a clerk at the Pasadena branch of West Federal – she said Charlie called to tell her he was going to keep his appointment tomorrow!"

Don had risen to his feet, and stared at Justin incredulously. "What?"

Justin nodded, and sensing the presence of the others behind him, half turned to include them in the conversation. "Her name is Sheri Johnson. I asked her to come down and make a statement; she's on her way. Dr. Eppes was supposed to meet with her to reactivate his accounts tomorrow morning, and she said he called today to say he was keeping his appointment. He told her that the stuff in the media was all a big mistake, and that he was fine, and he would keep his appointment."

David frowned. "What time did he call – did she say?"

"It was sometime around ten-thirty this morning, she thought."

Don looked at Colby. "Get in touch with the phone company – find the record of that call to the bank, and the number it was made from." Colby nodded and strode off, and Don looked back at Justin. "Why did she take so long to call us?"

"I asked her that myself, sir. She said she didn't have any reason to question his call, until she watched the local news this evening. They reported that Dr. Eppes was still missing, and even then, she said she figured the police already knew he was back, and that they just hadn't released the news to the press, yet. The more she thought about it, though, the more she wondered, so she called the info line."

Don and David exchanged a glance, and then Don said, "And she's on her way here?"

Justin nodded. "Yes, sir. She said she doesn't live too far away – she thought she could be here in fifteen to twenty."

Don nodded. "Okay, thanks, Justin. Good work – why don't you get back to that phone line?"

Justin nodded briskly, and his shoulders lifted a bit with pride at the compliment. "Yes, sir."

David waited until the junior agent left, and then looked at Don. "What do you think?"

Don's brow was furrowed, and still standing, he gazed absently at his desktop. Inside, he could feel stirrings of relief and excitement, but he squelched them. It sounded too good to be true; he didn't dare hope. "I don't know. It doesn't sound right. I can't believe that Charlie would string everyone along like this."

"I wouldn't either," said David softly, "if he were thinking straight."

Don looked up at him sharply. "What are you saying?"

David spread his hands apologetically. "I don't know. It's just – we don't know his mental state, these days. It had to be tough to be thrust back into real life like that …," he trailed off at the look on Don's face, and added hastily, "Of course, without facts, we should continue to pursue the worst case scenario – kidnapping."

Don sat down, and opened a file. "Call me when she gets here," was all he said, and it came out more curtly than he intended.

* * *

"…he _said_…," Don watched through the one way glass, as Sheri Johnson squinted at Nikki thoughtfully, trying to remember, "he said if I could keep it quiet, he'd appreciate it. He said it was kind of embarrassing. It sounded like he knew about the stories in the press – he said something like, 'because of all the stories in the press, he was calling to make sure I knew he was keeping his appointment,' or something close to that."

Lieutenant Walker had hurried down from LAPD in time to catch Sheri Johnson's questioning, and he and David Sinclair stood watching Nikki's interrogation through the glass. "You know, I hate to say it, Eppes," said Walker, "– or on second thought, it's a good thing - but from the sound of that, Charlie is under his own power."

Don said nothing. He rocked on his heels with his left arm crossed against his midsection, and the elbow of the other arm resting in his left hand. He was holding his right thumb reflectively against his mouth, as if holding the words in, and studied Sheri Johnson for a moment. "That's if she's telling the truth," he finally said, but his words lacked conviction.

David exchanged a glance with Walker. "I'd bet my next paycheck that she's being honest," he said quietly. "I don't think that one has a devious bone in her body. And what would she gain from a story like that? If she wanted fame, she'd have gone to the press, not come to us."

Don didn't reply, just continued to gaze through the window, as if hoping some new, miraculous bit of news would come tumbling out of Johnson's mouth. His scrutiny was interrupted by Liz, who poked her head through the door, her voice urgent. "Don, Justin's got another woman on the line with something you need to hear. She wants to talk to you personally."

Don flicked a quick glance at Walker and Sinclair, then looked at Liz. The intensity in her eyes was unmistakable. "You need to talk to her, now," said Liz. "She says she knows who has Charlie."

* * *

Don had Justin forward the call to the nearest conference room; it had line-tracing equipment hooked to the phone, and Colby ran for a technician to start a trace. Don waited for Walker, Sinclair, Liz, and Justin to file in, and then hit the button to connect the call, and the speaker button, simultaneously. "Don Eppes here. How can I help you?"

"Eppes?" The woman's voice floated out from the speaker, faltering, and Don immediately recognized the reason for her confusion.

"I'm head of the regional office of the FBI," he assured her. "I also happen to be Dr. Eppes' brother."

"You're heading up the investigation?" she asked. Her English was excellent, almost unaccented, but Don thought he could detect a hint of Latino in her inflection.

"Yes," he said. "Who am I speaking to?" The technician bustled in to start the trace, and Don stepped back a bit to let him get to the equipment. Colby had followed him back, and stood in the doorway behind David, listening.

Her voice lowered, and Don would have wagered any money that she was looking over her shoulder. "I can't tell you – he'll kill me if he knows it was me."

Don exchanged a glance with the group. "Who is 'he?'"

"Juan. Juan Laguna. His partner is Carlos Abrego. Juan told me that they are holding the professor."

Don heart leapt. "Professor Eppes."

"He didn't say his name, but he said he is a professor - the one who has been in the news."

Don felt his hand tighten on the edge of the table. "Where are they holding him?"

"He didn't say. He said they are taking him to a bank tomorrow, and they are going to have him withdraw money from his account."

Don exchanged another glance with the group; he could see a flash of excitement in their eyes that mirrored his own. Suddenly Charlie's strange phone call to Sheri Johnson made sense. "Do you know where Juan and Carlos are now?"

"N-no." The voice was wavering now, choked, as if the woman was holding back tears.

Don leaned over the phone. "Listen to me – this is very important. We need you to come down and make a statement – maybe look at some photos for us."

"N-n-no, I can't!" The woman was crying now, and her voice contained a hint of hysteria. "He will kill me if he knows I talked to you! I have to go!"

The line disconnected abruptly, just as the tech exclaimed, "Got it!" He pulled up another screen and surveyed it. "It came from a pay phone on Slauson Ave. in Maywood." He rattled off the address.

Gary Walker was already on his cell phone, sending a patrol car to the area, as Liz Warner pulled up DMV photos on the wall screens. "We have three Juan Lagunas in the L.A. area," she announced, as the group turned to survey the photos, "and two Carlos Abregos."

Gary Walker snapped his cell phone shut and surveyed the photos, pointing to one of the men named Carlos Abrego. "That one – the guy with the scar – my bet would be on him. He's a known gang member – has been active for several years." He paused, surveying the other photos. Of the three Juan Lagunas, two were younger, and looked eerily similar. The third was an older man with a thick salt-and-pepper mustache, and hair to match. "I don't have any idea on Laguna."

"One of them lives not too far from Maywood," said Liz, surveying their addresses. She pointed. "That one – the younger looking one on the left."

"I can get hold of the task force that handles gang-related crimes," said Walker. "They might be able to tell me who Abrego associates with."

Colby spoke, his eyes on the photos. "Well, that explains Charlie's phone call to Sheri Johnson. He had to have made that call under duress."

That realization had already hit all of them, but to hear it spoken aloud brought a vision to Don's mind, one that he rather would have suppressed – Charlie, alone somewhere with two thugs, at gunpoint… Walker looked apologetic. "You were right, Don – we should have trusted your instincts. Charlie didn't disappear on his own." His uncomfortable expression was echoed on Sinclair's face.

Don gave a slight wave of dismissal. If it contained a hint of impatience, it was only because he nearly jumping out of his skin from a mingled sense of urgency and excitement. "That's okay – we have something to go on now, at least. We just need to find Laguna, or Abrego, or both, before ten a.m. tomorrow."

Walker's cell phone buzzed, and he flipped it open. "Yeah," he said, his face darkening. "Okay. Ask around – see if anyone saw a woman there within the last few minutes." He snapped the phone shut. "That was the patrol car – he's at the payphone. It's on the side of a gas station. Our caller was gone already when he got there – no sign of her."

"She had to be close to one of the men," reasoned David. "How else would she have gotten that information?"

"Or she was in on it," suggested Justin.

"Maybe," Colby conceded, "but if these two are behind the ATM killings, it's not likely. If she was in on it, why would she be having a fit of conscience, just now, after they'd already killed five people?"

"We don't know they're the ATM killer – or killers," Walker pointed out.

"It fits, though," said Colby. "The M.O. – snatching a citizen off the street and then having him make a withdrawal from an ATM after dark – it's the same. Only Charlie couldn't make a withdrawal because his account wasn't activated. They had to alter their plan."

"It does make sense that there are two of them in on it, instead of just one," Liz agreed. "It would make it easier to pull off the kidnappings."

Don was frowning. "Not that much easier. They kidnapped five people, and now with Charlie, six, and some of the abductions were probably on busy streets in broad daylight. No one in any of the areas reported seeing anything suspicious, any show of force. If they are the ATM killers, they're smart."

Walker spoke up. "As soon as we confirm which of these men we need to pick up, we'll put out the APB. I'll be sure to tell my people we have to bring them in alive." He glanced at his watch. "It's almost eight p.m. I'm going to scare up some guys from the drug task force, and get that bulletin out – we only have a few hours to find them."

"We have to have an alternative," said Don, quietly. "If we haven't found them by six tomorrow morning, we need to get a team together to stake out the bank – inside and out." His voice sounded emotionless, reasonable, but even as he spoke, his own words sent a chill down his spine. The men would be on guard, undoubtedly with a gun on Charlie; it would be an extremely dangerous rescue attempt. By then, however, they would have no choice. If Juan Laguna and Carlos Abrego were the ATM killers, once they had the money, their next step would be to dispose of their captive. They could not allow Charlie to leave the bank with them.

Walker nodded and strode off, and David Sinclair spoke up. "We're gonna join the LAPD, and go look, too. The more bodies we have out there, the better. There's not a lot of time."

"All right," said Don, "but I want everyone in and off the streets by midnight. We'll need to be sharp tomorrow, and if we haven't found them by midnight, we probably won't." David nodded silently, and Don watched as his team left the room, hastily, with a purpose and a confidence in their movements that he wished he felt, himself.

* * *

Francisco Molina gathered with his men in the room that they had used to photograph the professor. They were seated at the wooden table, but he was on his feet, pacing, with a gleam in his eyes.

Pick Cordera was speaking, doubtfully, even though Ramon Jimenez had shifted his squat torso so that he could eye him, and was sending him a look that said he should keep his mouth shut. "That guy has twenty million? I never would'a guessed."

Molina sneered. "He does not have twenty million, and neither does his family. Haven't you been watching the news? He's famous; he wrote some papers that have gotten attention from the entire world. There have been speakers on the news – person after person from research institutions, and those institutions are worth millions. His family will go to them for help."

Another man, Sammy Gutierrez, spoke up. Sammy the Snake was as cold as his nickname, and after Ramon, was next in line in importance. Ramon himself didn't trust Sammy; he had no doubt that Sammy Gutierrez would love to see him out of the way; that he wanted to take his place as Molina's right hand man. Sammy talked crazy stuff – about the second rising of the Molina cartel, that they would be powerful once again. Ramon knew that Frankie loved to listen to that type of bullshit, but mostly, Frankie kept his head on straight; he knew those days were long gone. It would be stupid – it would be all-out warfare with the Espino clan in L.A., if the Molinas did not respect Espino turf, Espino power. Now, Sammy was spouting his usual line of propaganda. "To take Eppes' money, to deal with a long-time enemy of the Molina family – that would send a good message. Everyone would know that the Molina family is not to be messed with."

Frankie swung around to face them with a grin, the light in his eyes verging on manic. "And twenty million! Do you know how far that would go to rebuild the Molina empire?"

Ramon frowned, and tried to hide his surprise. Normally, Frankie didn't go for that nonsense – the Snake must have been working on him, when Ramon was not around. "What do you mean?" said Ramon, trying to inject reason back into the conversation, "We need that much just to keep our heads above water on drug buys."

Frankie sent him a sour glance, and shook his head impatiently. "As far as drug money goes, no, it is not enough. If we used it, however, to rebuild a base of people, to pay foot soldiers -," he waved a hand grandly, "we would have the manpower to take on the Espinos, and win. It will be vengeance money – not just for the professor, but for the Espinos themselves."

Sammy slapped the table with the flat of his hand, and it sounded like a rifle shot. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "And once we control L.A., we will be able to control the Mexican corridor! The Espinos will have no choice but to deal on our terms." The other men began to chime in, excitedly, and Ramon's heart sank. What they were proposing would set off a blood bath. They were idiots, except for Sammy, who was only in this for himself, for power. None of them would give Frankie good advice, and from the look in Frankie's eyes, he was already sold on the crazy scheme. Still, Ramon kept silent. Now was not the time to question Francisco, in front of his men. Ramon would talk to him later, he resolved, in private.

Instead, he tried to change the subject. If they were going through with this, they had better think it out carefully. "How will we deliver the pictures, and the request for ransom?"

He saw warmth in Frankie's gaze, and he knew that Frankie was thinking that Ramon agreed with his plans. "I was going to send them by courier. We'll pay someone from the street to take the package to a delivery service and have it delivered to the FBI, to Eppes' brother - he is in charge there. We will do it in the morning, as soon as the delivery service opens. Eh? What do you think, Ramon?"

Ramon nodded sagely, trying to convey approval. "That is good," he said simply, and lapsed into troubled silence, as their excited chatter continued around him.

* * *

It was the longest night that Charlie could remember. At one point, shortly after they'd brought him downstairs, they let him up to use the bathroom, and gave him water. For that, they took off the blindfold; he could see that he was in a small basement. Part of it had apparently once been an extra bedroom; there was a tiny bathroom off to the side, sans shower, but it had a sink and a toilet. After he was finished with his personal needs, they let him wash his hands and face, and gave him some water, but then the blindfold went back on, and his hands were cuffed behind him once again, around the metal beam.

His wrists by now were raw, bruised and tender to the touch. He could lie on his side, but it was very uncomfortable on the concrete with his arms attached to the post behind him, and he had to shift just so to ease the pressure that the cuffs put on his wrists. That led to cramped arms and shoulders, and after a time he would need to sit up with his back against the beam and shift positions, and try to lie for a while on the other side. He was exhausted, and beginning to get lightheaded again; he'd had just one hamburger in over – how long had it been since he'd eaten? Fifty, sixty hours, apart from the sandwich… he was losing track. It was Monday night. Had he eaten anything Saturday morning, before running to campus? He couldn't remember.

The blindfold didn't help. Charlie wondered at first why they kept it on; he'd seen their faces, after all. They'd already stated that they planned to kill him, so it couldn't be to keep their identities secret. He'd thought that perhaps they were using it to keep him disoriented in the house, so if he got a chance to escape, he wouldn't know where the exits were. Then he reasoned that they were in a medium-sized home; that it couldn't be too hard to find the exits, if he found himself in a situation to try. No, he finally decided, Frankie was using the blindfold because it was an opportunity to impose his will, to flaunt his power. The handcuffs had to be for the same reason – to make his captive uncomfortable, to make him feel helpless. They weren't needed; there was no escape from the basement as long as there was a guard at the top of the steps. Molina liked the sense of power; he was confining him simply because he could.

Eventually, Charlie drifted off into snatches of fitful sleep, broken by cramps running through his neck and shoulders. When he was awake, he would lie there and think back over his life, over all the moments, good and bad, and mostly, over all the regrets. One thing was glaringly apparent; he should have listened to Don, he never should have gotten involved in the case against the Molina cartel…

How different his life might be now, if he hadn't. If he'd been in the mainstream of academia the last few years, he would have had the influence to promote his papers, to get them read and perhaps accepted by the scientific community. He would not have lost Amita; they had been engaged, by now they would be married, maybe with children of their own. He might still be working alongside his brother; perhaps they would finally have established a real relationship, something he'd longed for all his life.

All of those things might be possible. And if even one of them was… he paused, stopping his line of thought. He'd been about to tell himself that he'd be happy, if only one of those possibilities had come to pass, but would he be? If he could pick one of those, and only one, which one, if any, would leave him happy with his life, would leave him feeling fulfilled? Or more to the point, which one, if it didn't happen, would bother him the most? It was a peculiar question; he'd never asked it of himself before, and it made him lie there, motionless in the darkness, thinking.

Mathematics was his life; he'd lived and breathed numbers for as long as he could remember, and for all of that time, there had been an expectation that he would someday find greatness, would contribute something significant to the mathematical and scientific community. Well, he'd made the attempt – he'd developed and published two significant theories – but had he really done that for himself, or just to fulfill what was expected of him? Granted, the work had been fascinating – he could always find joy immersing himself in a complex mathematical analysis, but had it fed his soul? Once it was over, was there the glow of knowing he had done something that meant something to a living, breathing human being? Even if his work was accepted, he had to admit, he wasn't sure.

Then there was Amita. He'd loved her deeply – he did still, and if he somehow survived this and she walked back into his life, he would be overjoyed. But would she be enough? Would simply being with her leave him satisfied, if he could do nothing else?

Finally, there was his work with Don. That had been fulfilling on more than one level. After five years of working cases, he'd found he'd become addicted to the work like nothing else. To outwit criminals, to perhaps save lives… That work _did_ have an immediate effect on living, breathing human beings. It was self-aggrandizing to think he had an impact on the vast amount of evil in the world, but every time they solved a case, he felt that way, just a little. And then there was Don – the older brother he'd always idolized, and their relationship, one that Charlie had always felt was somewhat one-sided, not on the outside, but deep inside, where it counted. He'd dreamed of the day since he was small, when he would no longer tag after his big brother, hoping for love and respect – he dreamed that how he felt would someday be reciprocated on an equal basis.

That, he knew, with sudden certainty, was it. If he could work alongside Don again, gain his love and respect, and fight the darkness in the world – that was the one thing that would be enough, by itself. And that, he thought, as despair finally closed in, would be his deepest regret when they killed him – that he'd never get that opportunity, and five years ago, he'd willfully thrown that chance away. The thought was overwhelming, and as he lay there in the darkness, he could feel what was left of hope, bleeding out of him into the cold concrete floor.

* * *

End, Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

**WP**

**Chapter 14 – Ransom**

_A/N: Again, thanks for your kind reviews. You're the best._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Tuesday, April 15, 2014, morning_

* * *

Juan Laguna looked nervously over his shoulder as he followed Carlos into the warehouse Tuesday morning. They'd had a close call the evening before; cops had come to Carlos' apartment, and as luck would have it, Carlos had been taking out trash at the time. He'd seen the LAPD officers, but they hadn't seen him, and Carlos slipped away quietly. He'd left his van at the apartment – there was another patrol car outside with men watching it – walked a few blocks away to a fast food place, and called Juan to come in the taxi and pick him up. They'd both stayed the night at a house that belonged to a friend of Carlos, sacking out on the sofas in the small living room. Juan knew the police hadn't come to his place – he'd talked to Carmen on the phone and she'd told him so – but both he and Carlos figured it was safer to stay out of sight. Carlos dealt drugs on the side. It was small-time stuff and it was hard to imagine it would warrant attention, but the cops' visit could have been related to that. Chances were, the visit was unrelated to their ATM heists, but they had no way of knowing with certainty.

"I don't know," said Juan, once they were inside the warehouse. "You sure we should go through with this?"

"Never more sure, man," replied Carlos, as he strode across the concrete floor. "If they _are_ on to us, it's all the more reason to make this final hit, get all the money we can, an' get out. An' them visitin' me last night may have nothin' to do with what we've been doin', otherwise they prob'ly would have come for you, too. Even if it did, there's no way they can possibly know what our plan is this mornin'. We'll do it, get rid of the professor, an' get out of town. Done."

Juan thought back to his call to Carmen the night before, to tell her to hurry and pack, and hoped she'd listened. The sooner they got out of L.A. after this, the better. He hadn't been this nervous about a job since their first victim, weeks ago. He was lost in those thoughts as they approached the warehouse office, and so he almost bumped in Carlos when he stopped dead, and said, "Shit."

Juan glanced up to see the office door slightly ajar. They looked at each other. "Did you close that when we left yesterday?" asked Carlos, lowering his voice and reaching for his gun.

"You were the last one out," hissed Juan. He pulled his gun, also, and they both stole towards the door, quietly, glancing around the warehouse to be sure they hadn't already walked into an ambush. They backed up against the doorframe on either side, weapons ready, then Carlos gave the door a push, and it swung open. They waited a breath or two; there was nothing, not a sound, so Carlos slipped around the frame and hit the light switch.

The professor was gone.

"Shit," said Carlos again, and then more loudly, "shit!" He banged the door in fury, with the side of his fist.

Juan was starting to feel real fear now; it crept up inside him as he walked over to inspect the chain and handcuffs that had secured Dr. Eppes to the post. The cuffs had been cut through. If the cops had found Eppes, they were in real trouble, but then it occurred to him – if the police had found Eppes, they would have left men here, waiting for his kidnappers to return.

"This wasn't the cops," he said, feeling a wash of relief.

Carlos scowled at him. "What do you mean?"

"If it was the cops, they'd have been here waiting for us to come back. Someone else took him."

Carlos stared at him. "Who? Who would know he's even here? An' who else would want him?"

Juan shook his head, slowly. "I dunno. You know we've seen bums hangin' around here – maybe one of them found him, and Eppes talked him into lettin' him loose - no never mind. If that happened Eppes would've reported it, and there'd be cops here. No, someone else had to take him."

They stood there a minute, pondering the situation. "Well, I know one thing," said Carlos. "This lets us off the hook. Even if the cops did suspect us there's no way they can prove anything. I think we should just go back to our places – if they bring us in an' question us, all we gotta do is deny. We'd even pass a lie detector test on this one, 'cause we ain't got any idea where he's at. They can't prove nothin'."

"I don't know," said Juan doubtfully. "I think we should leave town."

"No way. Runnin' is the worst thing we can do right now," Carlos retorted. He stuck his wide scarred face into Juan's, menacingly. "Don't be stupid. You run, you'll get us both in trouble. Our story is, we're innocent, and we're gonna act that way." He jerked his head. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

Juan cast one more doubtful look around the room, and then followed him out through the door.

* * *

"Okay, listen up. This will undoubtedly be a dangerous situation, not only for the hostage, but also for others in the area. Our best bet will be to take command of the situation the moment they step out of the vehicle."

Don listened to the SWAT tactical command at LAPD headquarters, and tried to calm the butterflies in his gut. The search for Juan Laguna and Carlos Abrego the evening before had turned up empty, although they had found the identity of their mystery caller. When officers had gone to Laguna's apartment, a young woman named Carmen Moreno had answered the door. After some questioning, she'd broken down and admitted that she'd made the call, but vehemently maintained that she didn't know where Juan was. The officers had no grounds to bring her in, and in fact, Walker considered it dangerous for her if they did, so they departed, leaving a patrol outside to stake out the apartment, along with another at Carlos Abrego's place. Neither of them had shown up that night, so at six that morning, Don and Gary Walker had begun to put plans in place to stake out the Pasadena branch of West Federal Savings.

As the lead investigator on the case, Don had the option of leading the operation, but he deferred that duty to the SWAT commander. It would be better, he decided, to have someone completely detached calling the shots. He wasn't taking any chances; Charlie's life was at stake. Now, as he stood with the assembled agents and officers listening to the commander's instructions, he was glad he had made that decision. He hadn't felt a case of nerves this bad prior to an operation since shortly after he'd been stabbed, over five years ago. Still, he made sure he was placed in the group that would command the street, which was where the action would take place.

The SWAT commander went over each group's role. A few would be assigned inside the bank, posing as clerks and customers, in case Charlie and his captors somehow got that far – Colby and Liz were assigned to the group inside the bank. Snipers were to be positioned on surrounding rooftops, and several agents would be undercover, on the street outside the bank. Nikki and David were among those, posing as a couple. Don, the SWAT commander, and Gary Walker would all be positioned in a bookshop across the street, out of sight but with a good view of the entrance. As the commander finished his instructions and the group began to file out, Don glanced at his watch. Seven forty-five a.m. They'd be in place by eight-fifteen, well before Charlie's appointment.

The wait was interminable. By the nine-thirty, the tension was almost palpable – and not only his own – Don could feel it radiating from the SWAT commander and Walker beside him, could sense it even in David's and Nikki's studied casualness, as they strolled hand-in-hand down the street to the end of the block, got a coffee, then slowly strolled back again. By a quarter to ten, Don was fairly vibrating with anticipation and worry, and by ten, he was pacing. Ten o'clock came and went, and at a twenty after ten, as Don stood staring at the bank entrance with slumped shoulders, Gary Walker said quietly, "Maybe they aren't coming."

Don opened his mouth to retort that maybe they'd been delayed by traffic, but a familiar figure that suddenly appeared outside the shop stopped the words on his lips. Justin, as a junior agent, hadn't been invited on this particular operation, but there he was, urgency on his face, darting through the door with a cardboard mailing envelope in his hand. "Sir," he said breathlessly, "this just came for you a few minutes ago at the office. I thought you'd want to see it right away."

Don scowled, and took the envelope. He suspected that Justin simply wanted an excuse to get in on the action, and he had sharp reprimand waiting on his lips that faded away as he glanced at it. It was from a local courier service, Quickpost, and below the FBI office address, slanted block letters read,

ATTENTION: DON EPPES.

Underneath, in smaller print, the sender had scrawled. "Where is the professor?"

Don hurriedly pulled the tab to open it, and carefully slid out the contents and stared at them for a moment, then said quietly, 'You're right, Walker, they're not coming."

* * *

An hour and a half later, they sat in the conference room back at FBI headquarters. They'd stayed at the scene for another hour, just to be sure the message wasn't some kind of ruse, but at that point, Don at least, had to get back. He was expecting a phone call.

The SWAT commander with his team and the snipers remained on the scene, just in case, where they would stay until Don called to tell them to stand down, but Walker, Sinclair and his agents had come back with Don. They were there, assembled in the conference room, along with L.A. office mathematics consultant, Mike Stillman, as Don stared down at the photo lying in front of him on the table.

It was printed on regular printer paper instead of photo paper, obviously a digital photo processed on a home computer and printer. As a result, it was grainy, but it had been enlarged, so it was easy to see the details. Charlie was sitting in a wooden chair, holding a copy of yesterday's _Las Vegas Sun. _The date on the paper was too small to read, but a call to paper verified that the headline matched yesterday's publication. Charlie appeared to be uninjured, and was wearing what he had worn when he disappeared – khaki pants and a T-shirt – minus the blazer he had worn with the outfit. His expression was solemn and relatively stoic, but Don could read tension in the set of his shoulders, fear in his dark eyes. He looked thinner, but apparently had been allowed some measure of personal hygiene; he only had about one day's worth of stubble on his face, instead of four. There were marks on his wrists, scrapes and raw places from some type of restraint. He appeared to be in a small room, probably a room in a house – short patterned draperies hung on a wide window behind him. There was nothing else visible in the picture.

Don glanced again at the note that had accompanied the picture. "Will call at noon with instructions," was all that it read, and Don had forwarded his office phone to the conference room, where again, a tech was set up with the tracing equipment, ready to trace the call when it came through.

Colby, seated beside him, glanced at the picture and frowned. "I guess that explains why we couldn't find Juan and Carlos at their apartments – they were in Vegas."

"Not necessarily," countered David. "They could be using a Vegas paper to throw us off. You can get one at most newsstands here in L.A."

"Or it could be the counter to hangman's theory," said a soft female voice quietly from the doorway. "They might think that we'd believe they _weren't_ in Vegas, and may actually be there."

Don's head jerked around and he stared, then with difficulty, tried to wipe the astonished expression from his face. "Amita!"

She looked the same as he remembered her; if anything, time had made her more beautiful, although her face was troubled. "I came to see if I could help," she said, and Colby clambered hastily to his feet and dragged a chair up to the table for her, as Don stood and said, "We can use all the help we can get."

Liz, nearest the door, gave her a quick welcoming hug, murmuring, "I take it your badge was at security."

Amita had looked uncertain, but the hug and Don's words seemed to reassure her. "Yes," she said to Liz, "thanks for arranging for that," and she stepped forward and sank into the chair. Don introduced Mike Stillman, who was ogling Amita through his glasses, and then Don quickly briefed her on what they knew, that they believed that Charlie was being held by the ATM killers, that the stakeout at the bank had yielded nothing, and now they were awaiting a phone call. Amita picked up the picture of Charlie with a hand that trembled just slightly, and gazed at it. "He looks the same," she said, so softly that Don was certain he was the only one who heard her.

"Two minutes," said Walker, quietly.

"What do they want?" asked Amita, looking at the cryptic note that had accompanied the picture, and just then, the phone rang.

"That's what we're hoping to find out," murmured Don, as he reached for the receiver. He lifted it and hit speaker at the same time, and all movement in the room ceased. "Eppes here."

"Agent Eppes, listen carefully." The voice was male, and the tone expressionless, terse. "We have your brother. He is currently unharmed. We are asking a simple trade for his return – the sum of twenty million dollars."

Don's jaw dropped, and he stared at the other inhabitants of the room, who looked just as startled. "Twenty million dollars! Even if I planned to negotiate with you, which I don't, I don't have access to that kind of money."

"Yes, you do." The man's tone rose slightly, and Don could hear a trace of belligerence. "The professor is an important member of the scientific community – I'm sure they'll be happy to donate to his cause. We'll give you two days to raise the money, and we'll contact you again on what to do with it in exactly forty-eight hours."

The line disconnected and Don glanced at the technician, who shook his head, and said, "Not enough time, but it indicates that they're here, somewhere. They're in L.A. or the surrounding area, within a 50-70 mile radius."

"So they aren't in Vegas – the paper _was_ intended to throw us off," mused Liz.

Don stared at the picture of Charlie, and shook his head. "They're crazy – twenty million dollars -,"

"Not so crazy," said Amita, quietly. "There are several institutions that would donate money for his return, especially if they thought they could convince Charlie to work for them if he was released." She looked at Don. "I can start making some phone calls -,"

Don shook his head. "No, I need to talk to Wright first. Even if we did decide to play along to set up a sting, we'd need to talk about how to handle the cash."

"If Laguna and Abrego _are_ the ATM killers, they just went from small time to the big leagues," said Colby. "They were getting – what – a few thousand per victim from the ATM accounts? Now they're going for millions. It's a complete change in M.O."

Amita had turned pale. "ATM killers?"

David nodded. "There have been five murders in the L.A. area recently – all of the victims were kidnapped; we're not sure how, and forced to withdraw funds from their ATM accounts."

Amita nodded slowly, with a glance at Nikki. "Similar to a case you had several years ago."

Nikki grimaced slightly at the memory, and David continued. "Yeah. We got a call last night from a girlfriend of one of the men. She told us they were holding Charlie –we've got a bulletin out on them, but no luck yet."

Amita pondered that. "If you give me everything you know about those cases and the men, I might be able to come up with their likely area of operation, and from that we might be able to narrow down where they might be holding him."

Mike Stillman spoke up. "I doubt it would narrow the area down enough to be of any use." His voice was nasal, and disapproving. Don knew the man was defensive and territorial when it came to his consulting work, and the guy definitely rubbed his team the wrong way – no one liked him. Amita didn't either, apparently, judging from the single raised eyebrow.

"It's a start," she said quietly. "If we put it together with what the team is doing, we might get somewhere."

"You got it, Amita," said David heartily. He didn't bother to waste a glance on Stillman.

"In the meantime," said Don, "we get out and look for them – hit East L.A. hard."

He watched as they filed out of the conference room, taking in the scowl on Stillman's face. In truth, he didn't like the math consultant much either, and the man didn't compare to Charlie – didn't even come close. But then, no one compared to Charlie.

After his promotion, Don had put math consultants in at all of his field offices – L.A., Vegas, and San Diego, with varying rates of success. Out of the three of them, only the consultant in Vegas had a good relationship with the team, and even so, she had only been moderately successful at contributing to their cases. All of his SACs, including David, had quietly suggested that they could do without their consultants, but Don had doggedly refused to remove them. Charlie had made a believer out of him – mathematics could be applied to everything. Now, though, as he watched Stillman slouch out of the room, he wondered how much his decision really had to do with the use of math, and how much of it was simply a way to recognize what Charlie had done while he was working here. Was it really a business decision, or was it in truth a tribute to his brother? He'd spent the majority of his career pushing the concept, but now, when he really thought about it, he had to admit he didn't really give a damn about the math, or if he had a math consultant in his office – unless that consultant was Charlie.

* * *

End, Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

**WP**

**Chapter 15 – A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words**

_A/N: Did someone say 'whump?' Hope this chapter makes up for the lack of Charlie in the last one._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Tuesday, April 15, 2014, evening_

* * *

Sammy 'the Snake' Cabral sipped at his tequila, and swept his hand toward the others lounging in the living room. When Sammy drank, Francisco reflected, his Latino accent deepened.

"Think of the message it would send," Sammy was saying. "We could drop copies of his picture around town tonight, showing his beat up face; it wouldn't matter who found them. He is famous; he is on the news. Someone will take it to the networks, and they will show it on television. And even if not, the pictures, they will get around the street, word will get around. The Molina family is not to be messed with."

Francisco took a sip of his own tequila and considered the prospect, as Ramon, his lieutenant, spoke. "I don' know. It's a risk. If he's injured, maybe the family will refuse to get the money, refuse to deal." His protest lacked conviction, his reasoning was weak, and it was obvious that he knew it. Francisco ordinarily listened to Ramon; he was always the voice of reason, but lately, he seemed… timid. There was a time to be cautious, and a time to act, thought Francisco. He had been cautious long enough.

Sammy snorted. "If anything, they'll be more eager to deal, if they feel he's being harmed." He looked at Francisco. "It will send a powerful message – this is what happens to our enemies – and it does not matter who they are, how famous they are."

Francisco savored the expensive tequila on his tongue, and swallowed. "You are right," he replied, with a dismissive wave of his hand toward Ramon. "Set it up."

Pick had been leaning back in a wooden chair from the dining room table, and he brought it down with a thump, his thin lips curled in an ugly smirk. "I'll do it," he said, running a tongue over his lower lip and tossing down his shot.

Francisco eyed him, and flicked a glance at Ramon. "Make sure he doesn't kill him," he said softly.

The other men in the room stood, eager to go and watch the fun, except for Sammy. He stayed put, swirling his tequila, holding court with Francisco. Ramon's lip tightened. He knew he was being dismissed, and he was angry, Francisco could tell. Ramon looked at Sammy coldly. "Are you coming?"

Sammy shrugged and glanced at Francisco, obviously hoping he would be told he could stay. Francisco grunted and waved him away. "Go." He watched with amusement as Sammy sent a poisonous glance Ramon's way. A little competition in an organization was a good thing, he mused. And if this went right, he would need both men leading his expanded operation. There would be plenty of opportunity for all.

* * *

Charlie jerked awake as the thumping of heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs behind him. He had drifted off, head nodding, his back against the pole, and now, still groggy, he leaned against it, his body tensing as the footsteps drew closer. He felt hands behind him and the metallic sound of the handcuff key in its lock, then his wrists came free. Rough hands pulled him to his feet, and half-dragged him toward the stairs.

Even without the blindfold he would have been completely disoriented; he no longer had any sense of what time it was, what day it was. Fatigue and lack of food were making him light-headed; he couldn't concentrate. That and the endless strain of the last few days were taking a toll on his faculties; he was deteriorating, physically and mentally.

His captors guided him up the steps, pushed him through a doorway and then stopped, and when the blindfold was yanked off, he found himself in the same room where they'd taken his picture. More photos, he presumed, and he glanced around at the assembled men, warily. Two of them still were gripping his arms. It appeared to be the same group as before, only without Frankie Molina.

"Keep ahold of his arms."

Charlie's head jerked around; he hadn't seen who had spoken, but it didn't take long to figure it out. His heart flip-flopped as he looked up to see the man they called 'Pick' swagger toward him, flexing his hands, balling his right hand into a fist. Pick stopped in front of him, his thin lips drawn into a sneer, and without warning, he suddenly let loose with a flurry of punches to Charlie's midsection. He grunted with the effort, his fists pummeling Charlie's torso, and Charlie gasped at the shock. It was the last oxygen he took in for several seconds; he couldn't catch his breath, not with the merciless air-stealing assault on his gut and ribcage. Another blow; and another, sick-sounding thuds sending bolts of pain through his abdomen and chest. His knees turned to rubber, his head began to spin, and he would have collapsed if it were not for the two men holding him up. He sagged against their arms, as a voice sounded dimly through the roaring in his ears. "Okay – enough of that. We ain't sendin' them a picture of his gut."

Pick ran the back of his wrist over his upper lip, wiping away sweat. "Why not? Take his shirt off." He grinned, panting; his fists still clenched. "I do good work with a broom handle – we could show his chest _and_ his back."

Charlie drew in a ragged breath, and his head cleared enough for faces to swim into focus. Two of the men were smiling and talking quietly in the background, gesturing toward him, obviously enjoying the show. The man who was arguing with Pick was the squat man who had come to the warehouse. He spoke again, coldly. "Just get his face – or should I let someone else do it?"

Pick scowled. "No, Ramon – I got it." He studied Charlie for a moment, sizing him up, and then threw a sharp, calculated jab at his mouth. Charlie felt a burst of pain that made his eyes water, and tasted blood. His teeth felt numb from the impact, but a tentative touch of the tongue assured them they were still there. His lower lip was split, however, and he instinctively licked at the blood that was trickling from it. The assault had been so fast, so vicious, that he hadn't had time to think about what it meant, and that situation wasn't about to change, as a fist shot toward him again, this time connecting with his right eyebrow. He groaned aloud in pain as his head jerked back. There was blood from this blow, too; he could feel it running next to his eye, down his cheek. He could sense that the skin just under his eyebrow was starting to swell as the man named Ramon stepped forward and surveyed his bloodied face, and then grunted approval. "Good. Let's get a shot of that."

"One more, Ramon," said Pick, and this time Charlie shut his eyes tight. The blow smacked into the left side of his face, striking his jaw and cheek. The other two had been quick relatively light sharp jabs designed to break the skin, but this one was powerful; it sent a blast of light through his vision and his head backwards, and he felt the world receding as he slid into blackness.

* * *

David and Colby approached the LAPD squad car, and the two officers standing near it walked forward to meet them. It was after nine p.m., and they were parked on a side street off a relatively busy section of Mayfield, in East L.A. Traffic streamed by on the street and the sound of loud Latino music in one of the vehicles thumped and vibrated; the noise and the lights creating a carnival atmosphere.

"Mark Daniels," said the first officer, with a nod to the agents. "We got 'em – they're both sitting inside the bar around the corner, at a little table in the back. We got guys stationed at the rear door already. The officer that spotted 'em going in said they didn't seem to be hiding – Abrego parked his van right on the street. Still, I think we ought to be prepared in case they resist."

David nodded. "Yeah, I agree. Agent Granger and I can go in through the front. Are you guys backing us up?"

Daniels nodded. "Yeah, we'll get your backs, make sure the other patrons don't jump in and try to help them out. It's a pretty small place. I think four of us will be enough inside, and we'll have some more backup out front. When you guys are ready, I can tell them to move in."

David glanced at Colby. "We're ready. Okay, let's go."

The agents headed for the cross street with the officers behind them, as Daniels pulled out a radio and called in more backup. As they reached the intersection, a patrol car cruised by, heading to their right, bound for the bar entrance. David patted the gun in its holster under his jacket, and he and Colby rounded the corner. There were a few pedestrians on the block outside the bar, but as they saw the approaching agents and officers, they scattered.

"Why do I get the feeling that they'll try to run?" asked David softly.

"Because they always do," said Colby resignedly. "I wore my track shoes, how about you?"

"I'm hoping we've got 'em pinned down well enough we won't need track shoes. I'm getting too old for that," said David, and he pulled his badge as he opened the door of the bar, and pushed into the small dim smoky room.

He spotted Carlos Abrego and Juan Laguna immediately, hunkered over shots at a small table to the back left. They glanced up along with the other patrons, but they didn't move. Instead, they wore the same expression of wary indifference as everyone else in the bar, and David left his gun in his holster as he approached them, and showed them his badge. "FBI," he said. "Stand up and put your hands on your heads."

Abrego scowled at him. "What's this about?" Laguna was silent, but David thought he could detect a flash of fear in the younger man's eyes.

"Stand up," repeated David, his tone sharpening. "Hands on your heads." His statement was punctuated by Colby, who had drawn his nine millimeter. The two men gave the gun a dour, respectful glance and rose slowly, their hands reaching for the tops of their heads. One of the LAPD officers stepped in and patted them down, as David said, "You're being charged with the kidnapping of Professor Charles Eppes. You have the right to remain silent -,"

"That's bullshit!" snapped Abrego, but David continued with the recitation of their Miranda rights, as the two men were cuffed. In moments, the LAPD officers had Abrego and Laguna out of the bar and into waiting squad cars, and the bar patrons were already turning back to their drinks as Colby and David made their way outside.

"That was easy," Colby quipped. "I put my track shoes on for nothing."

"Too easy," muttered David, frowning, as he watched the squad car pull away.

* * *

Liz stepped out of the interrogation room and into the viewing room, where Don stood, silently watching Colby work on Juan Laguna. She said nothing for a moment, her eyes flitting over his features, which were set in a stony frown of concentration. She could see lines of fatigue in his face, dark circles under his eyes. "How you holding up?" she asked softly.

He looked at her as if surprised to see her there, and then his face shed even that shred of emotion and returned to impassiveness as he looked back through the one-way glass. "Fine," he said, although she knew it was a lie. "How's Nikki doing with Abrego?"

"Getting nowhere," she said. "Abrego's a tough nut. We're actually thinking we'll have better luck with Laguna. Colby's going to take a break for a bit and pretend that he's going over to the other interrogation room, and when he goes back in he's going to tell Laguna that Abrego's making noises that he wants to cut a deal."

"We need to search their apartments, look for any of Charlie's credit cards or anything else they might have taken from him."

"Already on it," she assured him. "It's been a couple of days and the trash might have gone out, but they're planning on dumpster dives, the works. We also have the lab going over Abrego's van, looking for any evidence that Charlie was in it."

"We need to do the same thing with Laguna's vehicle."

"He says he doesn't have one. He says he uses his girlfriend's car."

Don frowned. "That doesn't sound right. I mean, it could be, but it's unusual for someone who can afford an apartment not to have a car."

"The apartment might be under her name. He says he's unemployed right now – maybe she pays for everything."

"Check," he said. "Talk to her again; too, ask her if he has a vehicle. We need their bank account information, too – and Abrego's."

She nodded. "We're going to get that first thing in the morning. We're going to look for any evidence of unexplained deposits around the time of each of the ATM murders."

The word 'murders' hung in the air, and Liz winced a little as she saw his jaw tighten, and tried to sound reassuring. "We've got 'em, Don, and Charlie looked okay in that picture they sent – we just need to get them to tell us where he is."

He nodded silently, and she wasn't sure if it was in agreement or dismissal. She slipped out, quietly closing the door behind her.

* * *

Alan almost didn't hear the soft knock at the door, and at ten at night, he hesitated for just a moment before heading to answer it. More than one reporter had shown up that day, and he wasn't expecting anyone that he knew – least of all the face that greeted him on the doorstep.

"Hi, Alan," said Amita quietly.

"Amita!" For a split second, Alan gaped at her, and then he swept her into a big bear hug. Stepping back, he held her at arm's length. "Oh, my dear, it's been so long – and you look the same – even more beautiful, if such a thing is possible."

He realized he was babbling and she was still standing there, and he stepped back and said, "Come in, come in. I didn't realize you were in town."

"I just got in this evening," she said, stepping into the room. "I stopped at the FBI offices – I'm trying to help out with the investigation." She glanced into the living room, taking in the changed furnishings. "Oh, wow, you've really changed things – the house looks wonderful."

The wistfulness in her expression wasn't lost on him, and his heart gave a little leap. He'd always loved Amita like a daughter, always known that she was good for Charlie, and here she was - maybe she still had feelings for him, maybe, if they found him… They _would _find Charlie, he told himself sternly, mentally lecturing himself for his lapse of faith.

They exchanged tired, sad smiles and Alan said, "My fiancée, Joanie helped me with it. Can I get you something? A sandwich? Some tea?"

"Actually, tea, and maybe some toast if it's not too much trouble," she said gratefully. "I haven't eaten since I left Boston this morning."

"Of course it's not too much trouble," said Alan heartily, bustling toward the kitchen, and she trailed after him, her gaze wandering around the house as she went. "You should eat something more than toast – I'll make you a sandwich. Do you have a place to stay?"

"Not yet," she admitted, as she pushed through the kitchen door behind him.

"Good, then you'll stay here," said Alan.

"Really, I don't want to impose," she began, but he turned to face her, sternly.

"Impose! I wouldn't have it any other way." His expression softened; his voice dropped. "Truthfully, I could use the company, and anyway, I've always felt that this was your home, too, yours and Charlie's."

She stared at him for a split second, then her face crumpled and she dissolved into tears. Alan stepped forward and held her as she sobbed into his shoulder, trying fight down the lump in his throat and tears of his own. The sense of time lost, of things that might have been, hovered in the room like a tangible presence.

* * *

"You hit him too hard."

Charlie winced and groaned, trying to pull his face away from the hands that were gently slapping his cheeks. The voice sounded accusatory, and it belonged to the stocky man named Ramon. Charlie got a quick glimpse through slit eyelids; Ramon's face, too close and somewhat blurry, then Charlie's head felt suddenly too heavy, so heavy…

The world spun away and then came reeling back, and his stomach contracted with nausea. He moaned again, and this time, lifted his head more slowly. It stayed up and his eyes remained open, although the room swam periodically and when it did, Charlie could feel his head dipping again. He fought against it, fought for consciousness. After a minute or two and several deep breaths, he became lucid enough to realize he was sitting in a chair, held there by something– a rope? He was afraid to move his head enough to look. Ramon moved off to the side and a camera light flashed. The click of the shutter echoed in his head, and then he was falling again, floating into darkness.

* * *

The pictures were out on the streets by two in the morning. They had printed a few copies, again by downloading the professor's picture to a computer and printing the photo out on regular printer paper. Frankie had keys to his cousin Nelida's produce store; they had been given to him long ago by Oscar, before he left for Mexico. He sent his men there in the middle of the night to use their office copy machine, and the men made hundreds of copies, and then split up to disperse them in the streets. They left most of them in stacks just lying where they would be found, by newsstands, and in or near bars. For the rest, they specifically sought out Latino gang members, approaching them on the street, whispering hints that the Molinas were back in power, that they dealt with their enemies, and that good pay would be provided to any who signed on as a soldier for Francisco. The word began spreading through the gang world, gathering momentum as more were told.

By morning, much of the L.A. gang population and a good portion of the news media had the photo. When Alan stepped out to get the paper the next morning, he was greeted by the headline, "Professor's Situation Grim." The photo, which was considered too graphic for the paper, was nonetheless described in detail. Alan opened the paper right there on the front steps, and the tabloid reporter in his car on the street snapped a photo at just that moment, capturing the look of horror on his face.

* * *

End, Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

**WP**

**Chapter 16 – Vertigo**

_A/N: Many thanks again for the alerts, and of course, for the reviews .... _

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Wednesday, April 16, 2014, morning_

* * *

Robin pressed a Styrofoam cup of coffee into Don's hands as she passed through the living room. He barely acknowledged her; his attention was completely taken by the reporter on the television. "Turn it off, Don," she said gently. He didn't respond, so she said again, over her shoulder, "Please, turn it off. I have to get Charlotte up – she doesn't need to see that."

He moved at that, and shuffled slowly to the coffee table, picked up the remote and shut off the television, trying to sort out the turn of events. David had called that morning and told Don to turn on the news, and the sight of Charlie's face, bloody and battered on the screen, had made his mind go numb for a moment. He and Robin had stood there in shock, staring as the newscaster rattled through the few facts – that hundreds of pictures had been distributed, and the rumor on the streets was that the act was motivated by revenge on the part of the Molina cartel. The story had exploded – all the local networks had it, some of the papers who had been lucky enough to get the scoop overnight had it in their headlines that morning, and even the national networks were getting in on the news. Most of them declined to show the picture, but the national cable channel that David had told Don to turn on had actually displayed it. Don found with a quick check that several internet sites were carrying the picture, as well. He had no doubt that the major news networks were going to feast on the story during the course of the day.

Now, even with the television off, he stood there, his gut still churning at the memory of his brother's image – his swollen eye and lip, the blood trickling down his face, the large angry red bruise and slight swelling on his cheek, and worst, the dazed, half-dead look in his eyes. The picture had again been grainy, undoubtedly printed on regular printer paper instead of photo paper, just like the picture Don had received yesterday, but the image filling the screen behind the reporter had been large enough to pick up the detail.

Robin had brought Charlotte down for breakfast in preparation for their morning routine; Charlotte went to a daycare with pre-kindergarten facilities every weekday. Alan had offered to give up his part-time job to watch her, but the daycare was first rate and boasted the best in early learning activities, and Robin had wanted her go there. Don had to agree with the decision; Charlotte was thriving, and she seemed to love the daycare, plus his father enjoyed his part time work for the city planner's office, and Don had no intention of asking him to give it up. His daughter looked at him as she drank her orange juice, and her somber dark eyes, the face rimmed with curls, made him think of Charlie at that age. Even at three, signs of his genius were beginning to bud…

He broke off his musings, kissed his wife and daughter, and sipping the remainder of his coffee, got in his SUV and headed for the office. He still wasn't sure what the turn of events signified, but one thing was clear – Carlos Abrego and Ramon Laguna were not Charlie's captors. They had spent the night in holding cells at LAPD headquarters. Charlie's captors had spent the night beating his brother and making copies of photos.

He pulled up to a stoplight, crushed his empty cup and flung it into the passenger foot well, and punched the top of his steering wheel with all of his might.

* * *

Nelida Caballero turned the handle of the office door inside the produce store, and frowned as it resisted. "I thought I just unlocked that," she muttered, and got out her keys again. She worked the keys, pushed in through the door, turned on the light and paused. Something seemed not quite right, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Shrugging it off, she moved through the office and opened the lower drawer of the desk and put her purse inside, and then sat down at the computer. A picture of her brothers, Oscar and Raul, was turned sideways on the desk, and she frowned again as she straightened it, and then looked more closely at the desktop. She kept it always just so – knick knacks, a pencil holder, a stapler, a notepad holder, all in their places, and they were all moved back from their normal positions, as if someone had pushed them back, or put something large on the desk that had pushed them out of place. It was a small thing, but she was sure they were in their correct positions when she left the night before. That made her wonder about the door – maybe it had already been unlocked this morning, and when she turned the key, perhaps she had locked it…

Her husband, Romeo, pushed through the door, frowning, and she said, "Did you lock the office door last night?"

"Of course," he said. "I always do – and I know I did last night." He shut the door behind him and lowered his voice. "Jorge stopped me outside in the store. He said word is going around that Frankie's up to something. You remember the two women FBI agents who came in here? They had a picture of the professor – the one who is missing."

Nelida nodded. "I didn't remember him when they showed the picture, but then it was on the news that he was missing – they gave his name and I remembered who he was. But the news has been saying that they think it is the ATM killer who took him."

Romeo shot another glance over his shoulder. "Yes – until this morning. Last night, someone put new pictures of the professor out on the street – he'd been beaten. Jorge told me that some of Frankie's men came through the East L.A. last night, and handed them out to known gang members – some of their own gang, and others. They told the men that this is what happens to enemies of the Molinas. No one is certain whether Frankie is really holding him or not, but he is trying to make it look like he is in command. The rumor is that Frankie is trying to enlist soldiers to work for him, to gain control back from the Espinos. Jorge also said that the Espino clan already knows Frankie is trying to obtain new soldiers, and they are declaring war. We will need to adjust the shop hours, and get our people out of here earlier while this is going on – the streets will be dangerous at night."

Nelida frowned. "Perhaps the FBI was right, perhaps Frankie _is_ involved with the professor's disappearance." She looked at him, with dawning fear. "_I_ am a Molina – the Espinos could come for me, too."

Romeo looked at her miserably. "I know, and me, as your husband. I thought of this."

Nelida's eyes filled with a look of sudden insight, and she gasped and turned white. She turned abruptly to the desk and scribbled on a note – _'I think someone was in here last night. The door was unlocked - things were moved. What if there is a bug_?'

Romeo read it over her shoulder, and they stared at each other for a moment, then he said, "We will need to be careful, that's all." He kept his tone even as though they were still engaged in conversation, but as he spoke he squatted and looked under the desk, running his fingers under the top. As he did so, he noticed a piece of paper peeking out from under a cabinet, and reached it for it. He pulled it out, and he and Nelida stared blankly at a copy of the photo of Charlie Eppes.

It took them over a half hour of searching, but finally they were convinced that their office wasn't bugged. Nelida sat down at the desk and stared at the image of the professor's bloody face. "How did this get in here?" she wondered aloud, then suddenly, she was on her feet, and over to the copy machine.

It was a medium-sized machine, but it was brand new; they had just replaced the old one. A function of the new machine was memory – it scanned and automatically stored the last five jobs. Nelida punched at the buttons, then hit print. A copy of professor Eppes' picture came rolling out, and she grabbed it and waved it at Romeo, her eyes flashing. "Francisco was _here_ – he used our machine for the copies of his pictures!" she hissed.

Romeo stared at her, aghast. "How did he get in?" he asked weakly.

She shook her head. "He used to come here a lot, long ago, when Oscar and Raul still lived in LA. He may have keys, for all I know." She looked over next to the printer and pointed. "There is a carton of paper missing, too. He used our shop for his printing." She turned back to look at Romeo, fearfully. "I loaded some of the paper in the machine – what if my fingerprints are on some of the photos?"

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, and then Romeo finally whispered, "Do you still have the card from the FBI agent?" She went to the drawer of the desk, rummaged through a small stack of cards, pulled it out and handed it to him, without a word.

"I will be back," he murmured. "Stay in the shop – do not go out on the street."

* * *

Juan Laguna and Carlos Abregos were already back in the interrogation rooms when Don got to the office, and Don made his way to the viewing room, where David, Liz and Lieutenant Walker had already gathered. They sent him wary glances as he entered, obviously trying to assess the impact of the new picture on his mood. Don stared at Colby and Laguna through the glass for a moment. "Isn't this a little pointless?" he asked abruptly. "We had Laguna and Abrego in custody last night – they couldn't possibly have distributed those pictures."

"We think they're still responsible for the ATM killings," David told him. "We got some evidence – strands of hair and fabric from the inside of Abrego's van. The lab has to do a complete analysis, but the samples are consistent with hair and clothing from the victims." He paused a moment and said quietly, "There were two strands of hair found that look like they could be Charlie's. They're being analyzed, along with the others. Abrego and Laguna could still be involved in this, Don."

"We found Laguna's vehicle," added Liz. "It's a taxi – although it's not registered with any cab company. We've got the lab going through it, too. It would explain how they were kidnapping their victims without a fuss – the victims probably thought they were hailing a legitimate taxi. We know Charlie was probably looking for a cab when he went for his walk in Burbank – he said he was going home. He would have needed a cab to get there."

Don stared at her. "That would mean his kidnapping wasn't premeditated – that he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Yeah, but based on last night, there's a problem with that theory," said Walker. "Sam Patterson from the DEA called me this morning. He says the word on the street is that Frankie Molina's men distributed those pictures last night – and that they were recruiting gang members, promising them pay if they came to work for Frankie."

"And guess where the pay would be coming from?" David's lips twisted. "The twenty million dollars in ransom money."

"There are other issues," said Walker grimly. "Patterson's undercover guys say that Molina's trying to oust the Espinos, and the Espinos know it. They've declared war – we need to find Frankie Molina and get him to back off, or we're going to have a bloodbath."

"Frankie Molina," said Don, softly. "If he is the one behind the pictures, then he's also the key to finding Charlie. The problem is; where in the hell is he?"

Liz' cell phone buzzed, and she stepped aside and answered it, quietly. "Liz Warner."

She listened for a moment and then looked up with widened eyes toward the others and said, "Okay, we'll be right there." She flipped the phone shut. "Maybe we're about to get lucky. That was Romeo Caballero. I left him my card when Nikki and I stopped by to question him and Nelida a couple of days ago. He wants to meet with Nikki and me at a produce warehouse in Glendale."

"Nikki's in with Abrego," said David. "I'll spell her – you two go."

Walker scowled. "Maybe you ought to have some backup."

Liz shook her head. "He said to make sure we're alone and that we're not followed."

Don looked at Walker, trying hard to fight down the wild surge of hope that had shot through him, trying to speak rationally. "Make sure there's a squad car or two in the area, but tell them to steer clear visually. Tell them Liz will call them in if she needs them."

* * *

Charlie groaned and stirred. Something hard and cool was pressing on him, and he opened his eyes just a crack, to figure out what it was. Floor. Basement floor. He reflected on that for a moment, groggily. Technically, it wasn't pressing on him - he was pressing on it, with a force normal to it equal to that exerted by gravity on the mass of his body…

He blinked again, still fighting a feeling of vertigo. With his eyes closed and the dizziness caused by his head injury, he was having a hard time assessing what direction was up, and what was down. No wonder he wasn't sure which direction the floor was. He kept his eyes open and focused on the far wall, like a drunk would focus on an object in the room to prevent bed spins. It helped, a little. He was still queasy and his head was still pounding.

For a long while, he lay there motionless, to sick and too sore to move, but eventually curiosity began seeping through the pain; either that; or the pain receded enough that he could contemplate something else. He could see – that meant no blindfold – and his hands were free. He cautiously rolled to his side and looked toward the other side of the basement. When the room stopped spinning, he could see that it was empty – at least of people. He was alone.

From this angle, he could see his feet, and he realized that his captors had stolen an idea from his first kidnappers. They'd put a chain around the metal pole, and cuffed his ankle to it. Maybe they'd figured he was in enough pain and didn't need the extra discomfort of his hands cuffed behind his back. Or perhaps, this arrangement was easier on them, too. Whatever the reason, Charlie could now change position more readily, could lie down… and close his eyes…and feel the cool floor against his pounding head…

* * *

Nikki shot a glance toward the rear corner of the produce warehouse, where Liz and Romeo Caballero still were deep in conversation, and spoke into her cell phone. "Don, it's Nikki. Yeah, we met with him. Liz is still talking to him – he's giving her some names of Frankie's top gang members. No, he doesn't know where Frankie is – he still says he hasn't heard from him in days, but he said that he and his wife think that Frankie or some of his men were in the office at their produce store last night – they think that's where they made copies of the photo. He said his wife thinks Frankie might have had a set of keys from way back that she didn't know about."

She listened, her face twisting ruefully at the disappointing message she had to give. "No – he says they have no idea where they could be, or where they might be keeping Charlie. The best we can hope for is to put out BOLOs for some of the names Romeo's giving us, and see if we can pick one of them up and get him to talk."

She fell silent, listening again. "Yeah, okay. Look, Don, there's one more thing. Caballero's saying there are a couple of rumors going around. One is that Frankie or his men are gonna hold a meeting tonight in East L.A. for new gang members. Says the location's secret. The other is that the Espino clan knows about the meeting, and they're gonna find it and crash it. I think we're gonna have some big trouble down there tonight." A pause. "Yeah, okay. I'll call him; see what he can find out."

She flipped her phone shut, and walked back toward Liz and Caballero. Liz had apparently finished questioning him, because she left his side and walked back toward Nikki, and they met in the middle of the warehouse floor. "Get the names?"

Liz nodded, and looked at the list. "He says the word is that Frankie's right hand man is Sammy Gutierrez."

"Sammy the Snake," said Nikki.

Liz cocked an eyebrow. "You know him?"

Nikki shrugged. "I've heard of him. He's been around awhile."

Liz consulted her list again. "He said there used to be a guy named Ramon Jimenez, but Romeo wasn't sure if he was still around – said he used to be Frankie's top lieutenant, but if Sammy is now, he's not sure if Ramon's still in the picture. He said there was another guy, too – Pick Cordera."

Nikki made a face. "I've definitely heard of him. He did time for assault a couple of years back – he's bad news. He was also a suspect in a stabbing, but we were never able to pin him down on that one." She paused. "Don gave me a guy to call – he's undercover. He may be hearing something about what's supposed to be goin' down tonight. Don said he's gonna talk to Wright and Walker – if we can find out where this meeting of Frankie's is at, we're gonna bust it."

Liz' eyes narrowed. "Well, we'd better bring an army. If what Romeo says is true, East L.A.'s going to be war zone tonight."

* * *

"This is crazy." Ramon Jimenez stared at Frankie, disbelief on his face. "You can't seriously be thinkin' of this – it's way too dangerous."

Frankie smiled at him from his seat in the living room. "You worry too much. You're like a little old lady, Ramon." He stood suddenly and pointed a finger at him. "There is a time when all leaders need to step up and take command, my friend, and this is the time. We got momentum on our side, and tomorrow when we set up the ransom drop, we'll have the money to fund this. The Espinos are goin' down."

Ramon looked at Sammy and Pick for help, but they remained silent. Sammy had a smug look on his face, and Ramon had the fight the urge to punch his big nose. Instead, he turned back to Francisco and spread his hands. "Okay, then, send some of our guys in to hold this meetin'. You don't need to be there – neither do we. If the Espinos find out where we are-,"

"Let 'em." Frankie waved dismissively. "They aren't gonna find us, and if they do, it'll be a chance to strike at them first. I'm done hidin'; I'm done waitin'. And besides, what are our new recruits gonna think if we don't have the balls to show up an' meet with 'em?" His eyes narrowed, and he changed the subject. "How is the professor?"

Ramon shrugged. "I have a man sitting at the top of the stairs; he looks down to check from time to time. Eppes keeps drifting in and out, but my man said the last time he looked more alert, was looking around."

Frankie nodded, meditatively. "We need to keep him in decent shape in case we need to provide proof he is still alive for the drop tomorrow. Get him some food and water before we leave tonight. When we come back, maybe we'll take another picture."

This time, Sammy was the one who looked doubtful. "We need to be careful how we handle the pickup – or who we get to handle it. If they nab our guy, and he talks… Well, it's okay, I guess, to spread a rumor that you have the professor, when they have no proof that can convict you. We just need to sure we keep it that way."

Ramon nodded in agreement; it was the first sensible thing that Sammy had said. "He's right – we're playing with fire, amigo."

Francisco grinned and shook his head. "We'll take care of that. You're right, though, we have to pick a man carefully – not one of ours. We'll contact someone reliable for the ransom pickup, but by phone, so he doesn't know who's givin' the orders. If it goes bad or they find him later, the guy won't be able to tell them who hired him. And when we're done, we dispose of the professor where they'll never find him. The street will know we did it, but the feds won't be able to pin anythin' on us. That will give us even more credibility with our people." Francisco grinned, and pointed at Ramon again, his eyes alight. "Tonight's the night, amigo. Tonight we take back what's ours."

Sammy and Pick grinned and nodded, and Ramon followed suit, because he knew that Francisco was watching him. Inside, however, he could feel tendrils of dread, spreading through his gut. Francisco _was_ playing with fire, a fire that could consume them all.

* * *

End, Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

**WP**

**Chapter 17 – Like Freakin' Afghanistan**

_A/N: Ask and ye shall receive – more Charlie and more whumping, and some Don whumping thrown in for good measure. _

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Wednesday, April 16, 2014, night_

* * *

Charlie jerked awake again, flinching at the sound of footsteps pounding down the wooden stairs, cringing slightly in a Pavlovian response to the expected threat. He swallowed, but his throat was dry; even through his apprehension he was aware of almost unbearable thirst. He tensed warily as two men approached, one of them the man named Pick. Charlie struggled to sit upright as Pick squatted next to him, surveying him with a grin – an expression that looked anything but friendly.

"You're awake." Pick shot an amused glance over his shoulder at the other man and turned back to Charlie. "Knocked you into next week with that last punch, didn't I?"

Charlie didn't reply, and Pick's gaze turned speculative. There was an ugly light in his eyes, a kind of sick excitement, and Charlie unconsciously edged further away, backing toward the metal post, the chain attached to his ankle rasping against the concrete. The other man licked his lips, and the expression on his face didn't make Charlie feel any better; he could read amusement, anticipation in it. A movement by Pick made Charlie's eyes flit back to him. Pick was rising, reaching back behind him, and Charlie's heart somersaulted as he saw the other man hand Pick what appeared to be a sawed-off wooden broom handle, about three feet long.

Pick swung it up and down, smacking it lightly in the palm of his hand. "They didn't want to let me have no fun upstairs," he complained, with a smirk. "We're goin' out soon, an' I got me too much adrenaline, ya know? I need to burn a little of it off." His grin widened, evilly, and he brought the stick down in a sudden sharp arc.

With a jolt of fear, Charlie ducked and jerked his arm up to protect his head, but the blow went underneath it, and smacked into his ribcage. He gritted his teeth, trying to hold in a cry of pain – he wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction, if he could help it. Still, the pain was unexpectedly intense, and he grunted as he rolled sideways and tried to scoot further away. The chain around his leg would only let him go so far, however, and he caught one more glimpse of Pick's face, the man's eyes rapt with twisted pleasure as the stick came down again, crashing into the back of Charlie's ribs, near his kidney. The spear of agony that shot through his back nearly stole his breath; he could hear an odd groan that must have come from him, and it took his air with it. Pick wasn't waiting this time; he was bringing the broom handle down in frenzy now, as fast and as hard as he could. A repeated flurry of blows were coming without respite – lighting strikes of pure torture hitting Charlie's shoulders, his arms, his legs, his torso. Charlie had ceased trying to move away; all he could do was cover his head, and roll a bit from side to side, praying that his movements would somehow throw off Pick's angle, and turn direct hits into glancing blows. It was a feeble, futile effort; Pick had been right when he's said he was good with a broom handle – it seemed as though he knew just where to hit, just the right angle to elicit the maximum amount of pain.

Try as he might, another exclamation of pain escaped Charlie, and then suddenly, the blows ceased. His head was swimming again, but dimly, Charlie heard voices, and as he took in some deep breaths, clarity began to return through the haze of agony. Another one of Francisco's men had come down the stairs. He was holding a six-pack of water bottles, and arguing with Pick.

"Francisco's not gonna be too happy with you," he was saying, and Pick scowled at him.

"We were just havin' a little fun, and I didn't touch his face again. If we gotta send another picture, no one's gonna be able to see what I did under his clothes." That last comment made Pick grin again in spite of himself, and he looked over his shoulder at Charlie, still gasping on the floor, trying to breathe through the pain. Pick turned back to the man, shrugged nonchalantly, and tossed the stick aside.

The other man was eyeing him, with narrowed eyes. "You guys were supposed to get him some food."

Pick shrugged again and headed for the stairs, and his accomplice followed him. "Yeah, yeah. We'll get it. We'll be right back." The other man sniggered.

"Better hurry, we're leavin'," the man with the water called after him, and then he turned and looked down at Charlie. For a minute, it looked like he was going to say something, but instead he just shook his head, and let the six-pack of plastic water bottles fall on the floor next to Charlie, haphazardly, and then he turned and bounded up the stairs.

Charlie could hear voices and footsteps above him, slamming doors, and then voices outside the house. There was a small frosted glass window at one end of the basement, and Charlie could tell by the darkness on the other side that it must be night. Without looking at the window, it was hard to tell; the bare bulb burning in the rafters of the otherwise dim basement made the room look almost the same, no matter what the time of day. He heard the door at the top of the stairs open again, and then the light suddenly went off, leaving him in darkness. Then the door shut, and the last pair of foosteps faded. Only a wisp of light came through the frosted windowpane. It took a few minutes, but his eyes adjusted enough, just barely, to make out the square of the window, and the faint glint of light off the water bottles.

There was the sound of vehicles in the driveway, and then – nothing. After several minutes, Charlie was convinced he was alone in the house, and slowly pushed himself upright. His body ached, and he trembled from the effort, but even over the pain, he could sense a desperate thirst. It was enough to drive him to move, and with a hand that shook with relief, he groped for and found the plastic bottles, pulled one off its stringer, and with a bruised hand, managed to screw off the cap.

'_Thank God, they're gone_,' he thought to himself, and took a cool, welcome swallow of water, touching the bottle rim carefully to his bruised, split lip. They'd forgotten to bring him food – or perhaps Pick had disregarded his orders – but Charlie didn't care. He just wanted them gone; he would make do with water. He wanted to drink all of it, but he forced himself to stop after half the bottle, and carefully replaced the lid. He was still feeling a little queasy, and it wouldn't do for him to drink so much that it made him sick. He set the bottle down, and shaking with hunger, fear, and pain, lay gingerly back down on the hard cement floor. There had been more than once occasion during his four-day ordeal that he'd felt like crying, but until now, he'd resolutely held in the tears. This time, he lay in the darkness, and let them come.

* * *

It reminded Colby of urban warfare in Afghanistan – lounging around a cityscape in flak gear, armed to the teeth. There were teams scattered unobtrusively throughout East L.A., pockets of agents and cops, watching and listening in the darkness for signs of trouble, waiting for gunfire to break out, or for a command to mobilize and head off to fight in another part of the city.

"Just like freakin' Afghanistan," he muttered. "Only without the camo and helmets."

"What?" asked Liz.

"Nothing," he said, and looked at his watch. Ten p.m. "It's about time something got started, if it's going to start." He glanced over at Don Eppes, pacing restlessly in the darkness of the parking lot next to David's SUV, and wondered for the twentieth time what Wright was doing, sending him out here. Don had been holding up well, Colby had to admit, but in a situation like this a person needed his head on absolutely one hundred percent straight, and he was willing to be that Don's head wasn't. Not by a long shot.

Don stopped suddenly and pulled out his cell phone, listened for a moment, then shut it and then bounded toward them. "We're moving out! We got intel that there's activity at a strip mall on Whittier. We'll reconnoiter at the corner of Paramount and Mines."

He darted back for David's SUV and Colby jogged after him; he, Don and David were all riding together. A bunch of guys, heading out through town, roaring through the streets to where the fighting was. Just like freakin' Afghanistan…

* * *

Ramon Jimenez glanced over the crates and beyond them, toward the corrugated metal walls of the storage and packing area. The building was tacked onto the end of a strip mall that housed a hardware store, a tire store, and a small oil change shop, that all sat on the edge of an industrial section on Whittier, on the outskirts of Montebello. Across Whittier was a larger building, a big warehouse. Ramon would have liked it better for their meeting, but one of their men worked at the packing facility that they were in, and had keys to the place, so they'd made do with it. It was big enough to hold a lot of men, but not big enough if those men started fighting. While Frankie, Sammy, and Pick looked for a spot to hold court, Ramon slunk off through the stacks of cardboard gaylords, looking for cover, scoping out exits. He came back to the group and spoke quietly to the other three men. "There's an unmarked exit, back in the corner behind me," he said. "If there's trouble, we can get out that way, head out across the street."

Sammy's smile was full of saccharine and nastiness. "What, you scared, Ramon? Getting' nervous?"

Ramon shot Sammy a look of contempt. "No, Gutierrez, just smart." He looked at Frankie. "I'm gonna set up behind you – I'll be in sight, but I'm gonna back up enough so that I can see around the crates behind you – make sure no one comes up along that wall while you're talkin'."

Sammy opened his mouth to sneer again, but he shut it when Frankie nodded approvingly. "That's good, man." Francisco glanced toward the door, where men were starting to filter in, and grinned, cockily. "Although, when they hear what I got to say, even the Espinos will want to sign up." He laughed and smacked Ramon on the back as Pick and Sammy drifted forward, toward the men.

Ramon was actually impressed by how many men showed up to listen. He leaned against a crate in an aisle, listening and watching as Frankie spoke. From his vantage point, he could see Francisco, and beyond him a group of about twenty men, maybe more. From time to time, Ramon would take a step back so that he could see around the crates, and scan an aisle that ran along the wall, behind them, making sure there was no one working their way along it. Only a fool wouldn't expect trouble of some kind tonight – although Ramon had to admit, Frankie's meeting seemed to be proceeding smoothly. He was offering all of the men work, and money, with no specifics given as to what the work would be, but everyone knew the job would entail drug trafficking of some kind. They were all gangbangers, anyway; some of them had to have allegiances to other gangs, but not too strong, or they wouldn't be here. Ramon hated to admit it, but Sammy might have had a good idea, especially if the Espinos decided that a war would be too costly. It was starting to look that way. Ramon leaned against the crate again, and relaxed, just a little.

* * *

Five blocks away, eighteen agents and officers gathered around the tactical command, jointly run by a SWAT commander and Agent Patterson from the DEA. "You've all been briefed, and have seen pictures of Francisco Molina and his lieutenants," said Patterson. It was a statement instead of a question, but the group nodded in answer anyway. Patterson continued. "We hope to try to take them without issue, but be cautious; they will undoubtedly be armed."

He stepped back to let the SWAT commander fill them in on the details. "They appear to be meeting in an industrial packaging shop on the end of a strip mall on Whittier," said the SWAT commander. "There's a garage bay open to the parking lot on the back side – they went in through there. There's also a front door that opens right out onto Whittier. It appears to be locked, but we've got three men already stationed there in case any of them come out there. Okay, here's the formation…"

Don listened intently as the commander outlined their plan to surround the building, and negotiate what would hopefully be a peaceful surrender by Frankie and his men. They would bring them down to headquarters, split them up, and see if they could get one of them to turn, to tell them where Charlie was...

In a few moments, they were moving out, climbing back into vehicles, and falling in line. They would all converge on the packaging plant, most of them in the parking lot in the back, setting up a barricade with their vehicles. Don, Colby, and David, who were some of the most experienced, were in one of the front vehicles. They would be going in through the garage bay along with another team, when the SWAT command gave the go-ahead.

As soon as they crossed Whittier, they could see the building, and suddenly the pop of gunfire sounded through the closed windows of David's SUV. The commander's voice crackled over the radio, "Move in, _now_ – with caution! We have shots fired!"

David gunned his SUV behind an LAPD cruiser, and they both swung around the corner into the lot behind the building, followed by four other vehicles. Their headlights illuminated men in the lot, gang members, some of them crouching and aiming pistols toward the garage entrance. At the burst of a siren they scattered like ants, and disappeared around the side of the strip mall.

Don, Colby, and David leapt from the vehicle and headed toward the garage bay, running, slightly crouched. The team from the LAPD cruiser converged on the door with them, and both groups threw themselves against the wall at either side of the entrance. Inside, they could hear shouts and the sharp report of guns, ear splitting in the confines of the packaging plant. Don didn't hesitate – he had but one goal that overrode all else – he needed to bring Frankie Molina in alive. Ignoring David's exclamation of warning, he pulled away from the wall and spun around the doorframe, gun extended.

* * *

Ramon saw the gang member's gun come up – he'd been watching a man in a gray hooded sweatshirt while Francisco spoke. The guy had seemed edgy, nervous, and sure enough, he was the first to draw. His shot at Frankie missed, but Ramon's shot didn't. The man went down, but others now had drawn their weapons. Espinos, obviously – it was an ambush. Ramon had been afraid of this. He darted forward and pulled Frankie backwards, putting a stack of crates between them and their enemies, as Pick and Sammy ducked around the other side. They all convened there, and then, ducking and weaving, Ramon and Francisco crossed an aisle to the next stack of crates.

There was a set of double doors that let out onto the street in front of the building, and as Ramon had turned, he realized that they were right there, near them. He darted forward and pushed on the bar that both opened and unlocked the door. It opened just a crack, he caught just a glimpse of three cops, facing him, on the other side, and he let it swing shut and lock again, then he grabbed Frankie's arm and urged him toward the unmarked exit at the far end of the building. Frankie, however, had his own ideas, and apparently was relishing the fight, and he pulled his arm away just as a man's voice rose above the din. "FBI! Drop your weapons!"

Everyone froze for a split instant, and Ramon caught a glimpse of the man and recognized the face – it was none other than Agent Eppes, their captive's brother. Other agents were pouring through the entrance with him, all of them with guns drawn, as Pick and Sammy darted around the back side of a crate to join them. Ramon opened his mouth to urge them all to retreat toward the exit, but then in disbelief he saw Frankie's gun come up, saw Frankie step forward around the crates. He looked at Frankie's face, at the manic light in his eyes, and heard Eppes shout again, "NO! Don't shoot him!"

Guns roared and spat, Frankie's along with the guns of the agents, and Ramon saw both Frankie and Agent Eppes go down. He didn't wait – he ducked around a crate and zigzagged through boxes toward the unmarked entrance and out into the night, with Sammy and Pick right behind him. They rounded the corner of the building and popped out on Whittier, and completely surprised the three cops stationed near the front door, whose attention had been riveted on the doors themselves. Their guns blazed again, the cops went down, all three of them, and Ramon, Pick, and Sammy darted across the street and lost themselves in the inky blackness of an alley next to the warehouse that loomed over that side of the street. They ran along its length – more than a city block, and dodged among some smaller buildings behind it, just as a police car roared past to their left on Paramount, its lights flashing.

Sammy was panting. "Damn cops, they're all over the place! We gotta find a place to hide until this shit calms down."

They were trotting along between the buildings, and then Pick said, "Here!" and scampered up the rusty fire escape that hung from the side of smog-darkened three story brick building, which looked older than time. He pushed through an open window on the second story – how he'd picked that out in the darkness, Ramon had no idea – but a moment later Pick was down on the ground floor, easing open a battered metal door, and they slipped inside.

They locked it behind them, and Sammy ran his hand over the wall in the darkness, and flicked on a light switch.

"Shut that off," hissed Pick, and Sammy scowled.

"Shut up, asshole, there aren't any windows in this room – no one can see the light."

"Don't tell me to shut up, and don't call me an asshole." Pick face was beet red, his mouth drawn into a snarl so pronounced that his thin lips were invisible. "You think you're God or somethin'? You ain't nothin' now that Frankie's gone." Ramon wasn't sure if he meant gone as in 'dead', or gone as in 'in custody', but it didn't matter; the end result was the same.

Sammy ignored Pick. "We need to figure out how to get to our funds and get out of town." He sent a meaningful look Ramon's way – he knew that Ramon and Francisco were the only ones who had access to the various Molina accounts.

"We need to go back an' take care of the perfesser," countered Pick. "He can identify us."

"We don't have time for that, and who knows who the cops managed to get their hands on, back there," said Sammy. "If they picked up one of our guys, or if Frankie can talk, one them might tell 'em where Eppes is. They will post men out at the house, waiting for anyone who's stupid enough to come back. Besides, if we get out of the country quickly, we'll be fine, even if he does identify us."

"Speak for yourself," spat Pick. "I don't wanna go live in goddamn Mexico. You may have been born there, but I wasn't. An' I don't wanna go down for no kidnapping." He strode forward, and jabbed a finger in Sammy's face. "An' I told you, you ain't tellin' me what to do."

The shot made Ramon jump. Pick's mouth dropped open and hung there, and he stared at Sammy in shock for a moment before staggering backwards. Ramon could see the pistol in Sammy's hand, still held level, and the dark stain spreading on Pick's shirt. As Pick went down, his own gun dropping from nerveless fingers, Ramon saw Sammy bring the gun up again to finish him off. "Sammy, wait, that's too noisy – I've got a silencer."

Sammy turned, his hand dropping, and as soon as he was facing him, Ramon pulled the trigger, and put a bullet in Sammy's forehead. He darted forward, catching Sammy by the shoulder, and giving him a heave, spun him around so he'd fall as if he'd been facing Pick. Sammy went down flat on his back, the shattered mess that used to be the back of his skull making a sick, wet-sounding smack as it hit the floor.

Then Ramon went to Pick, holding his own gun with his shirt and wiping it clean of prints as he knelt next to him. Pick's mouth was working, and blood was running from it – he'd gotten a round in the center of the chest, and both he and Ramon knew he was a dead man. "Thankss, R'mon," slurred Pick, "you g– got the bastard -,"

Ramon put his wiped-off gun in Pick's hand, and closed the dying man's fingers around it. "Here man," he said. "I know you wanna give him one."

Pick's hand was limp, and Ramon had to guide it to point the nozzle toward where Sammy lay prone on the floor. "Can't do it," Pick's voice was fading, his breath starting to gurgle in his throat, "You do it," and then his eyes fluttered shut.

Ramon stood. He left his own gun in Pick's hand; it was a street piece with the serial number filed off – it couldn't be traced to him. The authorities would think it was Pick's gun, would think that Pick and Sammy shot each other. He retrieved Pick's gun from where it had fallen, and slipped out the door, back into the alley. Sammy was right; there was no going back to the house – and no need to go back. Ramon would get to his apartment and his car before the cops showed up, and get a few things, and he'd head for the border. Frankie Molina had more than enough in his banks in the islands for Ramon to retire on the Mexican coast, and there would be no one left to come looking for him.

He had to duck in between buildings three times, but twenty minutes later he was clear of the area. In another twenty, he was at a corner bar, calling a cab.

* * *

Colby stood, his heart in his throat, as David squatted next to Don and checked him, quickly, urgently. Under his hands, Don stirred, and grimaced in pain. "The jacket took the rounds," barked David, waving Colby off. "Go!"

Several officers had come in and were cuffing some of the closest gang members, who had already relinquished their weapons. Colby and four other men fanned out throughout the building, looking for any others who might be hiding behind the crates. They found one more, and Colby let the others handle him and jogged back to David and Don. He found Don wincing, trying to sit up, and David trying to convince him to lie back down. "I'm fine," Don ground out, testily.

"You're not fine," insisted David. "You took several rounds in that flak jacket, Don. We need to get you checked out."

Don ignored him, trying to see past him to where Frankie Molina had fallen. "Is he alive?" A medic was scurrying in with nervous glances at the gang members being ushered out, and he scuttled past with his bag and dropped to his knees at Molina's side. Don looked at the men being walked out to police transports, and Colby knew he was looking among them for Francisco's lieutenants. "What about -," he broke off, wincing again as his bruised chest protested, "- his men? Did we get anybody?"

"I didn't see Sammy Gutierrez or Ramon Jimenez," said Colby quietly, "but there may be some of his other men in that group. It'll take some time to process 'em, Don. Just relax; let us take you to the hospital to get checked out."

Don gritted his teeth, and pushed up onto his feet with a muffled grunt of pain. "Wait a minute. I'm gonna talk to Molina."

David rose with him, and shook his head in exasperation. "Don, he's being treated, and you're hurt yourself. You can't -,"

"Watch me," Don shot back, and with one hand on his side, shuffled painfully over to where the medic was bending over Molina. David and Colby exchanged a perturbed glance, and followed. Don looked nearly ready to fall over, and Colby moved up a little closer so he could catch him, just in case. As he stepped forward, he got a glimpse of Molina's face. It was expressionless; his eyes were open, but were staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The front of his shirt was drenched with blood, and it pooled around him. There were two black holes in his chest area, in the middle of all the red.

The medic leaned back on his heels and shook his head. "He's gone. We'll get an official call at the hospital, but I've got no pulse."

Colby saw Don's shoulders slump, and he felt a pang of sympathy. "Why in the hell did he shoot at us like that?"

"He had a bunch of men behind him," said David, "back in those crates. He probably thought they were going to back him up."

Colby thought back to the manic smile on Molina's face when he came out from behind the crates. "I've seen that look before, on the faces of men in battle," he said quietly. "He looked battle-crazed; like he'd made up his mind to kill everyone in sight, or go down trying. When a guy's in that frame of mind, he doesn't feel fear."

"We'd better have some of his men in lockup," muttered Don. He turned, and Colby could see the lines of pain and disappointment in his face.

"Look, Don," said Colby with a wave of his hand at the medic, "why don't you let this guy take a look at you?"

"I can," said the medic, "but if there are no open wounds, I'm just going to recommend you go in for X-rays anyway. I suggest you head straight for the hospital; you'll have to wait a while for an ambulance if you stay here. I can call it in, so they take you in quickly. It'll save you a little time."

Don finally nodded dispiritedly and began to shuffle toward the door, with David hovering at his side. "Okay, thanks, do that."

Colby shot one last look at Frankie Molina's body, and followed Don and David out the door. "This is gonna break," he told himself. "One of the guys we brought in will talk to save his hide, and we'll find out where Charlie is." Deep inside, though, he felt the stirrings of fear; the same fear he saw in Don's face. If the Molina gang abandoned their plan for the ransom drop, what would that mean for Charlie? He tried not to think about it, and followed Don and David out into the night, and air that smelled of city and gunfire. Just like freakin' Afghanistan...

* * *

End, Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

**WP**

**Chapter 18 - Bruised**

_A/N: Sorry for the wait for this one; and thanks for the reviews. Here's 18 - _

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

* * *

_Thursday, April 17, 2014, midnight_

* * *

Don stepped wearily into the Craftsman at a few minutes after midnight, and although he was quiet, Alan stirred awake in the recliner. "Donnie!" He paled suddenly, and sat up straight, the footrest coming down with a thump. "What happened? Did you find -," He broke off; staring at Don's face, and Don could see the dawning panic in his eyes.

"No, Dad," he said, waving off his concern. "We didn't find him yet." He eased himself gently onto the sofa, and Alan didn't miss the pain in his face; his father was over at his side, instantly, and sank next to him on the sofa.

"What happened?"

Don took a breath, waiting for the ache in his ribs to subside before he spoke. "We think Charlie was being held by Frankie Molina."

Alan stared at him. "Was? You said _was_ being held?"

Don nodded, trying to keep his face neutral, trying not to show his own fear and disappointment. "We got word that Molina was meeting in town tonight with some gang members."

Alan nodded at that. "It's been on the news all day. They've been talking about –," he hesitated briefly, "- the picture, and speculating about gang warfare between Molina and the Espinos. But I thought you were pursuing the ATM angle – I figured the newscasters didn't know what they were talking about."

Don snorted softly. "Yeah, well, that's usually the case. This time, though, I think they're right. We think the ATM killers did have Charlie, but somehow he ended up with Molina. We're still trying to figure that part of it out. We needed to find Molina – he hasn't been at his home in Malibu for a couple of weeks – and when we heard about the trouble brewing tonight in East L.A., we went scouting for it, in the hopes we'd find him. We ended up in a raid at a place in Montebello."

Comprehension dawned on Alan's face. "A raid – that's why you're moving that way – were you hurt?"

"I caught a few rounds in the chest," Don admitted, and quickly added at Alan's horrified look, "I was wearing a flak jacket, Dad; I'm fine. Didn't even crack a rib – just got some nasty bruises." He paused, waiting for Alan to compose himself. "Molina was killed. There were a lot of men there, and we took some of them into custody." His face twisted. "Unfortunately, Molina's top men escaped – we think they went out through a side door, shot three LAPD officers. Two of the officers were hurt pretty badly; one was killed. Out of all the men, we only pulled in one guy that we think is a Molina gang member, but he's a small player. He says he swears he hasn't seen Frankie or his anyone from the inner circle in weeks; he just heard that Molina would be there, and showed up out of curiosity."

Alan's voice was quiet, almost eerily expressionless. "And do you think he's telling the truth?"

Don ran a weary hand over his face. "I don't know, Dad. We think – maybe. He seems willing to cough up any information he has to reduce his charges, but he hasn't come up with what we want – where Charlie's being held."

Alan was silent for a moment. "What now?"

Don sighed, and winced at the resulting pain that shot through his ribs. "So, we wait. Even though Molina's out of the picture, someone from his group will probably step up, continue with the plan. According to the DEA, there are at least two guys in that group with enough brains and ambition to do that – a guy named Sammy Gutierrez and another guy named Ramon Jimenez. They're supposed to contact us tomorrow – I guess it _is_ tomorrow; I mean later today – with the directions for a ransom drop. Our plan will be the same really – we'll just be dealing with a different guy."

Alan looked at him. "Do you want to stay here tonight?"

Don looked at him gratefully. "Yeah, if I could. It would save me the ride to Burbank, and I hate to wake up Robin so late."

Alan sent him a knowing glance. "And it will save you an earful about getting shot at. Although I should give you an earful myself – what good is a promotion when you keep going out into the field? You have a wife and a daughter to think about now, Donnie."

"And a brother."

"And you won't do him any good by getting shot." Alan stood, concern still apparent in his face. "Do you need anything for your bruises? An ice pack? A heating pad?"

"No, that's okay, Dad, thanks. They gave me some pain medication at the hospital, enough for tonight. I just need some sleep."

Don rose and trudged toward the stairs, aware of Alan hovering behind him all the way up, aware of the nasty little voice inside his head that kept asking, "_What if they call off the ransom deal? What would they do with Charlie?_"

He bade Alan goodnight and trudged into his old bedroom. He gingerly stripped off his clothes, popped one of the pain pills they'd given him at the hospital, turned out the light, eased into bed, and lay there, staring at the ceiling.

* * *

Charlie stirred and grunted in pain as his body protested, bruises and sore muscles making themselves felt as his eyelids cracked open. His eyes went straight for the little window. Light was filtering in through the frosted windowpane, and although the basement was dim, there was now light enough to see, so that meant it was morning. He shifted and winced at the stiffness in his shoulder as he brought his wrist up to his face to see his watch. The face of it was cracked from his beating, but the watch was still running. Eight-fifteen a.m. He just lay there for a second or two, listening; the house was as silent as a tomb. The men had obviously not come back yet from wherever they'd gone the night before. He wondered vaguely where that might have been, and slowly pushed himself to a sitting position.

Movement seemed to awaken his stomach; it made an odd, hollow rumbling noise. The hunger was so intense it was almost more painful than his bruises, and it was making him light-headed, making it difficult to think straight. He drank the other half of the bottle of water he'd opened the night before, trying to fill the void, but the only thing he was filled with was the need to relieve himself. He shifted uncomfortably, and cast a look across the basement toward the small lavatory. The handcuff-and-chain arrangement attached to his ankle gave him a little more freedom, but he was nowhere near close enough to reach the lavatory. About a yard away from him was a floor drain set into the concrete, however, and he decided that would have to suffice.

Getting to his feet was more difficult than he predicted. The room spun crazily at first, and he clung to the metal pole, taking deep breaths until it stopped enough for him to step away toward the drain, and take care of business. As soon as he was done, he carefully stepped back toward the pole and lowered himself down against it, sitting with his back to it. He was extremely dizzy; his heart was thumping, and his breathing was somewhat labored from the simple act of standing up. He knew his condition was caused by lack of nourishment. As much as he would hate to see his captors again, he knew he needed food – he just hoped they would come bearing sustenance, instead of broomsticks.

* * *

Ramon Jimenez pulled over in Hermosillo, Mexico and found a hotel. It was after eight in the morning, and he'd crossed the border at a little after midnight, and had driven all night. He was far enough away from the border now that he could consider himself safe, and get some sleep.

He lay down in the hotel bed, and thought over the situation. He had access to Molina money; there were several million dollars in offshore banks to fund the drug operations. After he got a few hours rest, he would get up and transfer as much of that as he could to his own private offshore account. To be safe, once he was situated he would open some other accounts and transfer the money once again. He would be a very rich man, and wondered idly where he would settle. A resort town, undoubtedly, he'd always liked the Mexican coast. He would retire from the drug business, have some fun for a while, then perhaps find himself a woman - a beautiful trophy bride.

He sighed with satisfaction, and his mind drifted back to the professor, still chained in the basement of the bungalow. An extra twenty million in ransom would have been nice, but he would have plenty of money; he didn't need it, and it was too risky to continue with the ransom plot. Their plan had been to shoot Dr. Eppes and hide his body in the desert once they had the money - after all, he could identify them. Ramon hated to leave that loose end behind, but the truth was the man was destined for death anyway. It would be a slower one, due to dehydration and starvation, but death was certain; Ramon didn't see how anyone would find him in time. He knew Frankie hadn't engaged a realtor yet to sell his aunt's house, and none of the gang members would dare show up there after last night. He'd made a quick phone call to one of them on his way to the border and confirmed that every one of Frankie's men who knew where the professor was had escaped. He'd instructed the man he called to get word out to the few who knew where it was that the house was off limits – that the police might be waiting there. The man confirmed that they were all lying low, most of them leaving town for a while, to dodge both the police and the Espinos.

No one else would have a reason to go there. Because he handled Francisco's accounts, and by extension, the aunt's accounts, Ramon knew the house was paid off – there was no bank to complain about not receiving payment. The utilities were on automatic payment out of the aunt's savings account. When taxes were due, months from now, undoubtedly the city or county would start to look into the situation. The professor's body might be found then, but it would be much too late.

Ramon sighed, closed his eyes and dropped off, to the deep relaxed slumber of a man relieved of all his cares.

* * *

_Thursday, April 17, 2014, Noon_

Don stared at the phone in the conference room, willing it to ring. Charlie's captors had specifically stated in their noon phone call on Tuesday that they would call again with instructions in exactly forty-eight hours. It was now two minutes past noon, and so far, no phone call. A technician sat across the table, waiting to trace the call, and Gary Walker, David Sinclair and the other L.A. agents were listening in as well. So was DEA agent Sam Patterson, and even Regional Director Phillip Wright was there. Immediately after the first phone call, Don had gotten Wright's approval to run a sting, to agree, at least ostensibly, with the ransom demands in the hopes of getting another lead on Charlie's captors or his whereabouts. He was ready, waiting, and the phone remained obstinately silent.

"They could be a little off-schedule, after last night," offered Liz, as she took in the tense expression on Don's face.

Don could see Wright watching him, and his boss had told him quietly before the meeting that he wanted to talk after the call. That sounded ominous, and Don couldn't help but wonder if his rash actions from the night before were giving Wright second thoughts about keeping him on the case. The thought made him nearly as uncomfortable as the ugly bruises that had bloomed on his torso. He tried to sound calm, in control, as he said, "So, while we're waiting, do we have an update on Abrego and Laguna?"

"The lab results came back," said David. "We've got several positive IDs on hair and clothing fibers from the ATM victims. The D.A. says it's enough evidence to file formal charges – they're our ATM killers, all right. There were a couple of strands of hair in the van and the cab that came back positively as Charlie's, so it's certain they picked him up, too, and held him for a while. How long and where, we don't know, and they're still not talking, so we're not sure how Charlie ended up with Molina."

Sam Patterson spoke up. "Both Abrego and Laguna have ties to the Molina gang, but they aren't part of the inner circle."

Colby added, "I've gotta believe if they knew where Charlie was being held, they would tell us, to cut a deal. After all, he was being held by Molina – Abrego or Laguna could give up that information without admitting guilt themselves."

Nikki nodded. "We took another run at them this morning; let them know that Molina was dead and that there should be no threat from him if they talked. Laguna pretty much said the same thing – if he knew, he'd be using the information to deal with us. I really think they don't know where Charlie is."

Don glanced at his watch again. Fourteen minutes after noon. He felt his heart rate ratchet up another notch_. Come on, call, goddamn it…_

Walker's cell phone buzzed, and he answered it, listening silently as the conversation in the room continued around him. At length, he hung up, his face grim. "Sammy Gutierrez and Pick Cordera were found this morning, both dead, in a small office only a block away from last night's shooting. We think they might have ducked in there to hide, then got into an argument – possibly over who was going to assume control of what is left of the Molina gang. Preliminary evidence looks like they shot each other."

"That narrows it down to Ramon Jimenez – he's the last one who would know Charlie's location – at least that we're aware of," said Wright, "and Romeo Caballero wasn't even sure he was still part of the gang." Don kept his expression stoic, but said nothing – he couldn't speak around the huge lump of fear and disappointment that had formed in his throat.

"We've got BOLOs out on other known gang members," said Patterson, "but there's no guarantee they would have been in on the plot, or that they'd know where the house was – at least, we're surmising it's a house somewhere, from the curtains in the picture. You're right; Jimenez would be our last shot. We've got men staking out his apartment."

"Is he a Mexican national?" asked Liz quietly, and Patterson swore at the implication.

"Shit! You're right," he said. "He is – he was born in Mexico. I've got to get an alert down to the border." He hurried out to make the call. Don glanced at his watch again. Almost twelve-thirty. _Come on, Jimenez, call…_

A half hour later, Don sat alone in the conference room except for the technician, still waiting. A few minutes earlier, everyone had drifted out except the tech, and he stood now, chagrin on his face. "I'll stay close," he said, "just in case," and then he scuttled out the door. As soon as he was gone, Wright, who had been standing and talking to David out in the bullpen, came in and lowered himself into a chair across the table from Don.

"Apparently they're not calling," he said, quietly.

"We don't know that," Don said stubbornly. "It's understandable that they'd be off schedule after last night. I'll just work in here this afternoon."

Wright was silent for a moment. "I've been thinking of pulling you off this one, Don – especially after last night."

"Phil, I know that was a little rash on my part, but I was trying to prevent the situation we're in now – I was trying to keep Molina alive. There was a gun battle going on in there – we couldn't just sit outside and let them kill each other."

"And you know as well as I do that when to enter was not your decision to make – that decision belonged to the SWAT commander."

"He wasn't there yet, and I felt we had to act."

"He was running across the parking lot toward you with another team when you went in. And you didn't give a command to the others – you just went, yourself. You could have gotten killed."

Don was silent for a moment – he couldn't speak. All he could think of was Charlie, dead, or left to die somewhere, alone…

Wright watched him for a moment. "You know as well as I do that we don't always get the outcome we want for every case. If you can't stay objective, Don, you need to take yourself off this. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, and let you make the decision. Do me a favor and don't make me look like an idiot."

Don nodded, and said quietly, "No sir, I won't. Thank you." He had no intention of taking himself off the case, and Wright knew that as well as he did.

Wright rose and stepped out with a nod, and Don sat there for several long minutes, just staring at the tabletop. He finally looked up as Sam Patterson stuck his head through the door. "Bad news," said Sam. "Ramon Jimenez is already over the border. He crossed early this morning."

* * *

Amita sat in a cubicle at the edge of the bullpen, and stared at her computer. Next to her were copies of the reports from the lab, and bits and pieces of the information they knew – addresses of Laguna, Abrego, Molina, and his top lieutenants, the locations of ATMs that the Laguna and Abrego had visited with their victims, and a few other items. There was not enough data and it was seemingly unrelated, and so there was no good way to design an algorithm for it. There was nothing to indicate where Charlie had been taken to begin with, and where he was now. For that matter, there was no way to know if he was even still alive.

He had to be alive, though, she told herself. She couldn't bear it if he wasn't, because she'd come to a realization. Five years hadn't changed a thing - she was still deeply in love with him. She closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears, and sat that way, motionless for several minutes, just praying. "Charlie," she whispered, a tear streaking down her cheek, "Charlie, where are you?"

End, Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

**WP**

**Chapter 19 – Schrodinger's Cat**

_A/N: There will be some small jumps in the timelines in the next couple of chapters; you will need to pay attention to the italicized dates._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Thursday, April 17, 2014, evening_

* * *

Charlie sat with his back against the post, took a small sip of water from the bottle, and carefully replaced the cap.

The darkness that had descended told him it was nighttime, even though he couldn't see his watch, which read ten-fifteen. His captors had been gone for over twenty-four hours. He'd spent a long day waiting in the silent house; napping as well as he could on the hard floor, combating the pain of his bruises and the even more painful iron grip that hunger had on his gut.

As time progressed, doubt began to swirl inside him. Why had no one returned? What could be keeping them – all of them – away for so long? Had they left him here to die? If so, why had they given him water, and talked about giving him food? It was that small act that gave him hope that they would return; if they wanted him to die, they wouldn't have bothered with giving him the water bottles.

"They need me alive for something yet," he said aloud, but his voice sounded rusty, thin, hardly convincing. It was hoarse and strained from yelling for help, and it reminded him of how much he'd already deteriorated; he was weak and shaky, and every sustained movement, like standing, made his heart thump, made him breathe like he'd just run a sprint. His cries for help had gone unanswered, and the absolute silence both inside and outside made him conjecture that the house was out of town somewhere, out where there were no nearby neighbors.

He looked at his remaining water. As the day had worn on he'd started conserving, but he'd still consumed another half of a bottle. Besides the remaining half, there were four others, each of them twenty ounces.

The good news was, the basement was cool – in fact, when he dozed off, he would wake up shivering, his body heat leached from him by the cold floor. The coolness kept him from sweating, which would conserve how much water his body used. He realized that the lack of food was making him feel colder than normal; his metabolism was slowing, a natural response to starvation. That, and his relative inactivity, was limiting his calorie burn. Still, he knew that he was already dehydrated and malnourished.

He remembered reading that a person could survive three or four weeks without food and for up to a week or so without water. He'd had a little food and water since Saturday, but not nearly enough, so even though he still had some water, he would have to consider that practically speaking, the time period toward death by dehydration had already started – as far as his hydration level went, he was probably already the equivalent of two days into that week. He pondered that, and began mentally calculating how long he had, then stopped himself. He couldn't think that way. Molina and his men were coming back for him; they would still need him to carry out their ransom plot. He would find some way out of this.

He set the bottle on the floor and lay down again. When they came back, he needed to conserve his strength if he was going to try to escape. And there was always Don, and his team, he told himself. He knew they had to be on the case. Maybe they'd had a breakthrough of some kind – maybe they'd even picked up Molina for questioning, and that was why he wasn't here. _Someone_ would come for him; it was only a matter of time. Shivering a little, fighting down a growing sense of dread, he curled in a ball on his side, and tried to sleep.

* * *

_Friday, April 18, 2014, morning_

"Don, what were you thinking?"

Robin stared in shock at the ugly bruises on her husband's chest as he sheepishly stood in front of her in the bathroom, wearing only a towel after stepping out of his morning shower. He'd stayed the Craftsman the night before last, and had come in late last evening, so although she'd slept next to him during the night, she hadn't really seen him until this morning. The bruises on his torso, big, ugly, and already black, were bad enough, but almost worse was the drawn look on his face, the lines of fatigue, and the exhausted desperation in his eyes. Her eyes were drawn to the old scar from his stabbing, which stood out white against the bruises. It flooded her with old memories, none of them good. She softened her voice. "You should have told me."

He sighed, and reached for his pants. "So you could sit there and worry? I was fine – it actually looks worse than it is."

"From what you just told me, you could have been killed. What if they'd aimed for your head instead of your chest?"

He gave her a one-shouldered shrug as he dropped his towel and stepped into his briefs. "So they didn't. Do you have any idea how many times I've been shot at? I couldn't begin to count them all. It goes with the job."

Robin's eyes flashed. "Not any more, it doesn't! When you took this promotion, you told me it would mean travel and longer hours, but the trade-off was that you wouldn't be going out in the field. I was okay with that trade-off, because I figured you'd be safer." Her voice cracked, and tears welled in her eyes. "Now you're telling me you signed up for this – this raid, and God knows you were probably rusty, anyway, and then you go barging in -,"

He had his pants on now, and he stopped her tirade, gently grabbing one of her wrists and pulling her toward him, while he put a finger to his lips. "Shh, shh, you'll wake Charlotte."

She resisted, but only slightly, and then finally gave up entirely, moving toward him and carefully leaning into his embrace. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I know you wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for Charlie." He was silent, and she moved back slightly and looked up at him. "Don – just don't do it again, please."

His brow furrowed and he stiffened slightly. "If we find out where he is, I won't lie to you, Robin, I'm going in, wherever it is."

"Don -," She stopped, shook her head, paused, and then took a breath and continued. "Don, the chance that he's still alive – well, you know the odds -,"

He stepped back from her then, and turned toward the mirror, abruptly. "He's alive, I know he is." He turned back to face her, his eyes dark and glinting with anger. "I won't think otherwise, and if you do, you can just keep those thoughts to yourself."

"Don," she said helplessly, "I don't want you to give up hope, I really don't. But before you go running off and play hero again, just consider what I said. You might go out and get yourself killed, and it would all be in vain if he were already gone. Just think about that – think about Charlotte growing up without you."

His face was expressionless, as he turned back toward the mirror. "She won't have to grow up without me, and she's not growing up without her uncle, either." He reached for his razor and began to shave, and Robin knew that both she and the conversation had been dismissed. As fearful as his response made her, she felt a grudging admiration for his strength of conviction. Truthfully, his reaction didn't surprise her. Actions spoke louder than words, and in spite of his frustration when Charlie had arrived and in the early hours when he'd gone missing, she knew that Don bore a deep love for his younger brother. It had survived Don's years away from home when he was in fugitive recovery, and Charlie's years away in WP. It would survive this – she only prayed that Charlie would.

* * *

_Sunday, April 20, 2014, noon_

Over two days later, Don thought over his statement to Robin, and wasn't nearly so sure.

He sat nearly alone in the office, at his desk. He knew that David and Colby were out in the bullpen, although they were the only two in besides him, both of them doggedly faithful, refusing to let him work the case alone. Oh, it wasn't that Wright wasn't supporting the case – it was just that there were no leads to follow, no need for an office full of agents on a Sunday afternoon. Colby manned the information line, although there were few calls coming in now. Amita was working at the Craftsman, trying to determine logical spots where Charlie might be, but without data, her quest seemed futile.

Charlie's disappearance was still in the news, but he had been gone long enough now – over a week – that the story didn't run every day. His story was on the second page of the newspapers now, and it wouldn't be long before it moved back another page, and another. The story was rarely on the evening news broadcast. Conversely, two weekly news programs were preparing in-depth stories that were yet to air. Don and Alan had agreed to cooperate with them and give them information and pictures of Charlie, in the hopes that someone would recognize him, or realize where Molina's men had been keeping him when the shows ran.

With the disappearance of Ramon Jimenez, all hope for contact with any of Molina's men had dried up. The BOLOs had produced nothing – the remaining gang members were apparently in hiding. There were no further demands for ransom, nothing that could give Don or the team any new bit of information, any new bit of hope. Don had never felt more helpless, more inept in his life. Charlie was counting on him, and he was striking out big time.

He sighed, and looked up as David came bustling into his office. "LAPD just called," said David, excitement in his voice. "They got Carlos Abrego and Juan Laguna to crack. They'd piled up a boatload of DNA evidence from the ATM victims, things that they found in the van and the cab, including hair samples from Charlie. LAPD let that info spill, and then told Laguna that Abrego had sold him out – said that Laguna had done it all, and had borrowed Abrego's van. Of course, Abrego had said nothing of the kind, but Laguna didn't know that. I guess he was pretty ticked off; even his lawyer couldn't calm him down. He admitted to picking up the people, but said that he did it out of fear of Abrego – that Abrego had threatened him and his girlfriend. The threat part was probably a lie too, but they've got an admission now, and LAPD is going to file official charges for multiple murders. I called Wright – he's going to set up a press conference for tomorrow to announce that they have the ATM killers. He said he wants you to be there."

It was good news, but David's words had poured out with a little more animation than was justified, and Don's eyes narrowed. "So, what is it that you haven't told me?"

David's dark eyes were alight with suppressed excitement. "When Laguna started coughing up details, he gave them the location where he and Abrego took Charlie. He swears that Charlie isn't there anymore – they think that some of Molina's men must have found him somehow, and taken him – but maybe we can find some other evidence there." He waved a piece of paper. "It's a warehouse in East L.A."

Don was already on his feet, and grabbing his keys. "Get Colby – let's go check it out."

* * *

Charlie lay on his side and gazed listlessly at the metal cuff around his ankle. He'd tried twisting it, bending it, trying to get it to break free from the chain it was attached to, but to no avail. He'd heard once of a man whose arm had been trapped under a rock, alone somewhere in the wilderness, who had hacked off part of that arm to free himself. He wondered; if he had a knife, would he have had the guts to do that to his foot?

That thought was only half-formed, and didn't stay for long, like most of his musings, now. It had been over a week now since he'd had food of any kind. He was exhibiting clear signs of starvation; his body, now long depleted of glucose, had moved on to using stored fat, and when those stores became thin had begun to break down muscle tissue. He was constantly cold and kept waking up shivering, reaching for a jacket that was no longer there. By now, he couldn't even remember what happened to it, he just knew that he had worn one, along with a knit short sleeved T-shirt and his khaki pants to Don's party. Somewhere along the line, the jacket had gotten lost, along with any sharp recollection of the past few days. His thoughts were becoming confused, nebulous, shifting like sand.

He moved uncomfortably; his muscles ached and the loss of padding on his body made the floor feel even harder. He could feel it pressing back up at him, contacting the now-sharp jut of his hipbone, his shoulder, and he stared at the water bottle in front of him, wondering if it was time for another sip. He'd been trying to spare it, and truthfully, he wasn't that thirsty – one of the effects of starvation was a decreased sense of thirst. He knew, though, that if he stopped drinking, the end would come sooner, so he tried to take in water periodically. He reached for the bottle with a shaking, feeble hand, noting vaguely as he did that there was roughly half left of this one, and two more after that. Two more bottles, and then he would die, because it had become very apparent by now that Molina and his men were not going to return, and that Don and his team had no idea where he was.

He raised his head from the floor and took a sip of water, then laid it back down as he replaced the cap. His head felt heavy, too heavy for his neck. He closed his eyes, and drifted not into sleep, but into that twilit state in which he found himself, more and more as time went on. Not awake, but not asleep, suspended in a haze of half formed thoughts and memories. Still here, yet not, like Schrodinger's cat. Not dead, but not alive either, he was somewhere in between…

"Dying," he whispered; the sound of the whisper faint and scratchy. It floated out into the silence and disappeared.

* * *

_Sunday, April 20, 2014, early afternoon_

The warehouse was easy enough to find by Laguna's description, and it was clear to see how Molina's men had gone in – there was a chain secured by a padlock on the chain-link gate, and it had been cut through, probably by a heavy-duty bolt cutter. Don, Colby and David pushed through and stepped cautiously through the deserted truck bay on the other side, and then through the truck bay door into an empty, echoing warehouse.

According to directions from Laguna, they headed straight for the back, where they could see that an interior office had been built, and stepped through an open door into the dark room. The warehouse must have been on an electrical line that served other buildings that were still occupied, because it had power; the light in the ceiling came on when Colby flicked the switch. There was a rustle and a dark form darting along the base of the wall – a rat, which disappeared in a gap behind a vent. Don's eyes swept the room, and he immediately spied Charlie's jacket, draped over a chair that had been pulled up to a table. Underneath the table was a sandwich wrapper, the kind used for fast food sandwiches – at least, what was left of it; it had been chewed by the rats. A plastic water bottle, empty, sat on the table. Ropes and cut zip ties were piled underneath the chair, on top of dark blotches that looked like blood stains. Don swallowed.

Colby was squatting next to a square post, and he pointed at a chain around the post and a set of handcuffs lying next to the chain. "Cut through," he said. "Molina's guys probably used the same bolt cutter that they used on the chain outside on the gate." He looked up. "We could have the lab examine the cuts – see if they can match the marks to a particular brand of cutter."

It was a feeble course of action; even if the lab identified the proper brand, the chance of tracking it down to one unique sale was remote. It was painfully obvious that Charlie had been here, and it was just as painfully obvious that they would find very little to tell them where he'd been taken next. Don took one last look on the jacket, hanging on the chair, and turned for the door. "Get the lab in here," he said; his voice tight with repressed disappointment. "I want them to go over every inch of this place."

* * *

_Tuesday, April 22, 2014, afternoon_

"_You know, Charlie, you got your own self into this jam." _

_Charlie stared at Don, who regarded him calmly across the table. "I'm sorry," Charlie mumbled. He knew he wasn't speaking intelligibly; his mouth was too dry, and he couldn't think straight, couldn't talk right. Don frowned and bent forward to hear him better, and suddenly he was gone, and there was a scarred ugly face leaning toward him – the man named Carlos. _

"_I'm gonna take you to the bank," Carlos said, "and then I'm gonna put a bullet in you." He reached forward, his big hand going for Charlie's throat._

Charlie recoiled, thrashing, and jerked awake, vaguely aware of hitting something with his arm. He blinked, fighting for clarity. He'd been slipping in and out of consciousness, plagued with hallucinations. Slowly, it came to him that he had been dreaming, and he was now awake. He was still lying on the basement floor on his side, panting, short shallow breaths coming from cracked lips. As consciousness returned, his heart dropped. He realized now what he had hit with his arm – his one remaining water bottle had skittered a few feet away.

A sense of panic broke through the fog, and he mustered the last bits of his strength and dragged himself toward the bottle, reaching, straining as hard as he could against the chain on his ankle. He wasn't even close to touching it – it lay there, mocking him, about a foot away from his outstretched hand. The afternoon light filtered through the frosted windowpane and caught molded facets in the plastic of the bottle, and they glittered like diamonds. Charlie stared at the sparkling water inside the container, more precious than the jewels it resembled.

He'd been saving that last bottle for as long as he could – it represented life, and without it, he knew he would begin the final leg of his decline. Now as he gazed at it, he thought to himself it represented not only life, but _his_ life. All of his hopes, his dreams – his life's work, Amita, his relationship with his brother – all of them dangling before him like a glittering treasure, unfulfilled, just out of reach. He would die with all of them unrealized.

He laid there, his arm still extended toward the bottle, staring at it, with no strength to do anything else. When darkness descended, he didn't move; he could pick out the faint glimmer of the water in the dim light, or imagined that he could. Somehow, keeping visual contact was important; he felt that if he lost sight of the bottle, he would lose the last shreds of memory, of hope, of his will to live. He kept his eyes open as long as he was able, until sometime in the middle of the night, when he closed them, and didn't open them again.

End, Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

**WP**

**Chapter 20 – Curtains**

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all – here's the next one - _

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Wednesday, April 23, 2014, late afternoon_

* * *

Nelida Caballero headed wearily toward the office of the produce shop, sidestepping the boy who was mopping in aisle six. She glanced toward the door, and slowed to a halt.

She'd never met him, but she knew the face. Don Eppes' picture had been on the news lately, nearly as often as his brother's had. Monday, he had been at a press conference where one of his superiors had announced that they captured the ATM killers, and the man had congratulated Don and his team in front of the press. Afterward, Nelida had watched as that bank of reporters had surged forward, mikes extended, all of them clamoring for Don Eppes' attention. One of them had the nerve to ask, "How does it feel to solve this case, and know that your brother is still missing?"

Nelida didn't care for the police, especially the federal agents; after all, they had driven her brothers Oscar and Raul to Mexico, where they had been killed. When she looked at Don Eppes' face on the television, however, she had felt a pang of sympathy. She felt it again now, watching him as he gazed about her store. He looked exhausted, sad. She stepped forward, the movement caught his attention, and they locked eyes. "How can I help you?" she asked politely, but not in a friendly manner. She would never be this man's friend – not when he represented those responsible for her brothers' deaths.

"Can we talk somewhere privately?" murmured the agent, and Nelida nodded and turned.

"Follow me." She led him to the office. Her husband, Romeo, was in the back of the shop, unloading a shipment of lettuce, so they were alone, and she took the chair behind the desk, a position of authority.

Don Eppes got immediately to the point. He shoved a paper towards her; she recognized the first picture of Dr. Eppes that had been on the news after his disappearance – the picture taken before he'd been beaten. "I need you to look at this," he said. "Not at my brother – look at the room behind him. I need to know if you recognize it, or if you know of anyone who might."

She glanced at the picture; behind Dr. Eppes was only part of a bare wall adorned with some old curtains. There was nothing there to recognize. She looked up and studied him, with pity. "I have already seen this picture – most of L.A. has. You are truly without any clues, aren't you?"

He tried to keep his face impassive, but nothing could hide the flicker of despair in his eyes. "Frankie Molina took him to that place. We have no way of knowing if he's still there or not, but if he is, we need to find it. If they left him there alive, he doesn't have much more time, without food or water." He studied her for a moment; then rose to his feet. "I know you probably aren't inclined to help me, but think of that for a moment. Your brothers were not killed by law enforcement, they were killed by other drug dealers, and they died quickly. My brother is possibly facing a slow death – one that he didn't deserve."

Her eyes flashed. "He _does_ deserve it – he helped make the case against my brothers with the DEA. They drove my brothers to Mexico. If they had been able to stay here, they would still be alive."

Don shook his head. "You don't know that. Look at Frankie – he was killed right here in L.A. The DEA didn't kill your brothers – their lifestyle did, and they chose that lifestyle. You were smarter than they were – you picked a different life. You aren't like them, Nelida; you never were." He paused a moment, then said, "You and I both know what it's like to lose a brother. I'll leave the picture with you. If there is anyone that you think might know where that room is, maybe you can show them the picture." Then he turned, and walked out.

Nelida sat and stared at the door, until long after he was gone.

* * *

_Saturday, April 26, 2014, evening_

The picture sat in the desk drawer for three more days. Nelida had talked to Romeo about it, about quietly showing it to some of the younger men in the neighborhood – men they knew to be gang members. Romeo had flatly nixed the idea. "They'll know we're working with the cops," he told her. "We'll become the enemy. We need to stay out of it."

So she'd tucked it away, but she hadn't thrown it away, like he'd asked. Late Saturday afternoon, she ran across it again when she opened the drawer just prior to closing, and the professor's face stared back up at her. For a moment, she was taken by a jolt of familiarity, but she thought to herself that it was just his image that was familiar – she had seen it so many times now. She picked up the picture, intending to throw it in the trash, then hesitated. Maybe it would be best to dispose of it at home, where no one from the shop might see it. She folded it in half and tucked it in her purse.

That evening they settled down for some television after dinner, and Nelida received another jolt. One of their favorite programs was a weekly ninety-minute news program that did in-depth reporting on one or two big stories each week. This week, it featured a story on none other than Dr. Eppes, and Romeo snorted as his picture came on, and raised the remote to change the channel. "Wait," said Nelida. "I want to watch this."

So they did, and listened to the reporters talk about the professor; his genius, his education, his consulting work for the FBI, and of course, his already famous papers, published just as he went missing. His father was interviewed, and talked wistfully about life growing up with a genius, tearing up when he said how much he missed him, and at that, Nelida's eyes watered a little, as well, although she didn't let Romeo see. They watched in silence until the end, and then Romeo turned the channel.

They went to bed without discussing the show or Dr. Eppes, and in fact, Nelida didn't even think about it when she lay down to sleep. That was why it shocked even her when she sat straight up at 5:30 a.m. on Sunday, her eyes wide open. She knew where he was.

She sat there for a moment, listening to Romeo's soft snoring, then slipped out of bed and padded down to the kitchen. She started a pot of coffee, and while it was brewing, went to her purse and pulled out the picture. Those curtains… she knew them.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down, studying the picture. Her father and Frankie Molina's father had been brothers. Frankie's father, Eduardo, had married a woman named Carla Perez, and together, they'd had Frankie, their only child. Carla and Eduardo had passed away a few years ago, Carla first, of emphysema, and Eduardo from lung cancer – both had been heavy smokers. Nelida had hated to go to their house; it always stunk of smoke, and it was small and drab, compared to her family's house. Carla had a sister, Esperanza, Frankie's aunt, who was odd, to put it politely. Esperanza Perez had never married, and lived alone in a sixties-style ranch, far out on the outskirts of Valle Vista. Nelida had been there twice while growing up, had played hide and seek with Frankie and her brothers Oscar and Raul. Her favorite hiding spot was in a wardrobe in one of the bedrooms – the ones with odd curtains with funny abstract shapes on them.

She wasn't sure how she even remembered those curtains, from so long ago – they had surfaced in her sleep somehow, but the picture had to have been taken at Esperanza's house. There couldn't be another set of curtains like that, and they were on a high, wide window, just as she remembered. It made sense, too; she'd heard that Esperanza had gone to a home for the elderly, so the house would be deserted – it would have been a haven for Frankie, when he wanted to disappear.

Now that she knew, the question was, what would she do about it? Everything her father had taught her about family loyalty spoke against calling the police, and Romeo would agree. He did not like the gangs and the drug dealers, but he did not like the police, either. He preferred to stay away from both of them. If she called Agent Eppes, however, she could ask him not to say who had told him. She had a feeling that he would honor her request.

She stared down at the picture, still weighing her decision. There was also the question of revenge. The young man in the picture had worked against her family, against her brothers. He would have worked with the DEA to put them in prison, if they hadn't been killed. He was an enemy of her family. Somehow, though, she didn't feel hatred when she looked at his picture. His eyes were dark, sensitive, not cruel. He had probably been used by the DEA, like they used many people. And he was someone's brother… She could not forget the look of sadness, of loss in the agent's eyes when he spoke of him, because she felt it so keenly herself. They had that in common.

It was time; she thought to herself. Time to let go of the anger, the illusions she labored under when it came to her brothers; time to forgive. Don Eppes was right; they were drug dealers, perhaps killers, and she was not like them. Perhaps the way to right all of this was simply to do the right thing…

She listened for a moment to make sure that Romeo was still asleep, and flipped over the picture. Agent Eppes had scrawled his phone number in the lower left corner. She retrieved her cell phone from her purse, and dialed.

* * *

_Sunday, April 27, 2014, morning_

Robin watched anxiously as Don strode past her, grabbing his cell phone and the keys to his SUV. "Be careful," she said.

He paused and kissed her. "It'll be okay," he said. "Valle Vista police have a squad car on the street already – there are no cars at the house, no one down at that end. It looks like there's no one there at all, but just to be safe, we're going in with flak jackets and a SWAT team. I won't even lead them in – I'll be fine."

She nodded, but worry over his physical safety was only part of her distress – she was fearful of what he would find there, concerned over the emotional pain that he could very well be facing, if he found his brother's body. "Call me," she said, and he knew what she meant.

His eyes darkened, then his jaw set resolutely – she could tell he was putting the thought out of his head. "I will," he promised, and then he was gone.

* * *

"Why didn't we pick up on this place?" Don kept his voice quiet, his tone non-accusatory, but he detected the fleeting, chagrined glance that Colby and David exchanged, in the front seats of David's SUV.

David gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, and kept his eyes on Liz and Nikki's vehicle ahead of them as he responded. "When we found out that Frankie Molina was not at his residence, we went through a list of family members and friends that might have been harboring him. Molina's parents are dead, so they were out. Although his aunt came up on the list, the info we had on her was that she was in a nursing home. No one realized that she still held property."

"We should have given her name to Amita," said Colby, and Don could hear the self-recrimination in his voice. "I don't know what kind of records Amita was referencing, but she might have made the link to the property."

"It was understandable that you didn't," Don said. His voice came out sounding calm, rational, even to his own ears, which was amazing, because inside, he was screaming with impatience. "No one would have thought to link an elderly lady in a nursing home with a bunch of gang members."

He suspected by the dejected set of their shoulders that his words were doing little to comfort either Colby or David, and he added, "We may find nothing when we get there, anyway. Someone could have moved him by now."

The two agents were silent, and Don knew what they were thinking – that maybe they _would_ find something, and it would be too late. His brother had been gone for over two weeks, after all. The more he thought about it, however, the more he doubted they would find Charlie there. They'd been chasing one slim lead after another on this case, and always seemed to be off the mark, or one step behind his kidnappers. This lead would probably be no different. Oh, they would likely find evidence that Charlie had been there, just the like the warehouse, but certainly, he would be long gone. At least, that's what Don told himself; it was the only way he could stay rational, the only way he could calm the thumping of his heart.

Esperanza Perez' house was at the end of a road named Cheyenne Drive, out on the edge of nowhere. It was a mile or two outside the tiny town of Valle Vista, in a rural section of desert. The street was a dead end and boasted only three houses, and of the three only the first one, located on the corner, was occupied. An older couple lived there, and although the house was a quarter mile from the Perez home, they had quietly been evacuated. SWAT was already set up outside, waiting, as David pulled to a stop at the end of the road. Don's heart quickened as he surveyed the modest ranch home. The windows were right, set high in the walls, short but wide. He scanned them as he exited the SUV, looking for the oddly printed curtains. There were drapes on all of the windows, pulled shut, but the side facing the street was lined with white fabric; there was no way to tell what they looked like on the inside.

Even though the place looked deserted and the couple at the other end of the street said there had been no cars down the road for days, they went in according to procedure, in formation, with guns extended, preceded by SWAT team members with automatic rifles. Don thought he felt in control, but as he swept through the front door after them, he could feel his heart rate accelerating. He tried to breathe, tried to ratchet it down, as they moved down a hallway toward what had once been bedrooms.

They found the room almost immediately. There it was, with the printed curtains, the plain, light-colored walls. There was a camera still sitting there on a table – no one had come back to retrieve it. A wooden chair sat with its back to the curtains; they had undoubtedly seated Charlie there to take his picture. A few drops of blood spattered the floor, other than that, there was nothing to indicate that Charlie had been there, but it was the room, all right. Don lowered his gun. He was right; Charlie was gone. He might have been moved before Frankie and his men had even shown up at the warehouse. The knowledge and sense of disappointment should have made his heart rate drop, but for some reason it was still pumping, as if his heart itself knew there was something more to find.

They split up to search the rest of the house, and Don started back down the hallway. He had no intention of leaving until he personally looked at every inch of the place. As he passed an open doorway that led to the basement his still-pounding heart nearly lurched out of his chest as a voice called out, "Down here! Hit the light!"

Don immediately swiveled and headed down, hitting the light switch as he did so, taking the stairs two at a time. As he descended the stairs and cleared the partial wall that formed part of the first story, he could see the concrete floor of an unfinished basement come into view. One of the SWAT team members was kneeling over a figure, prone on the floor, and as Don caught sight of him, he nearly lost his footing. Somehow, he kept it, and came around the railing. _Charlie…_

As he took in the scene, he stopped dead for a moment; words froze in his throat. Charlie's gaunt form was lying outstretched on the basement floor, his ankle chained to a metal support pole. He was surrounded by a few empty water bottles, and Don's heart caught as he took in the outstretched arm. Charlie was lying as if reaching for another water bottle a foot away from his limp hand – a full bottle, which had obviously rolled away from him. Don felt a wave of grief rush through him at the sight. Charlie had been here all this time, for days with little water and no food, waiting for death, reaching for the one last bit of water that could prolong his life.

The SWAT team member was on his feet, heading for the stairs. "I'm going for a medic," he said. The words and the man's sympathetic expression went completely unnoticed by Don; his gaze was riveted on Charlie, as he came around him so that he could see his face, and sank slowly to his knees next to him.

Charlie's eyes were closed, sunken. He looked limp, lifeless, dead, and Don's hand shook as he reached out towards his neck to check for a pulse. For a moment, his hand hovered; he didn't want to know the truth. If he didn't touch him, didn't feel the cold dead flesh, then he could deny for at least for one more moment – he wouldn't have to face the awful truth that he'd let him down, that he'd failed him when Charlie needed him most. He took a deep breath, and gently touched his trembling fingertips to Charlie's neck.

* * *

End, Chapter 20


	21. Chapter 21

**WP**

**Chapter 21 – Make it Stop**

_A/N: Okay, okay, here's the next one. Not that it will do you much good - _

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Sunday, April 27, 2014, late morning_

* * *

Don touched Charlie's neck gingerly, trying to still his shaking hand enough to check for a heartbeat. Cold. God, he was cold. The realization of his worst fears nearly doubled Don over, but before he could withdraw his hand, he felt the faintest of flickers. Could that be – was that a…. pulse? He pressed harder, feverishly adjusting his fingers on Charlie's neck, trying to find the right spot, and he grabbed his brother's wrist with his other hand for good measure. The arm was limp; not rigid, and the featherlike heartbeat was proof. Charlie was still alive.

"Charlie." The name came out as a croak. He felt so cold, and all Don could think of was that he had to heat him up, warm him until help could come. He reached under Charlie's arms and sat back on the floor with a thump, dragging Charlie's inert form onto his lap as well he could considering Charlie's tethered ankle, holding his upper body against his and wrapping his arms around him as if he would never let go. Charlie's curls rested against his face, and Don was struck with the sudden fear that Charlie would die right there, in his arms. "Don't go," he whispered, and his breath stirred the curls against his cheek.

At nearly the same moment, feet came thumping down the stairs – Colby, a medic, David, another medic, and then Liz and Nikki. There were more voices and thumping footsteps upstairs, and Don heard the voice of the SWAT commander float down, as he spoke to his team. "Stay back – they'll need room to get him up. Finish checking the rest of the house and the grounds."

"I think he's alive," Don croaked again to no one in particular – God, he couldn't seem to find his voice. He cleared his throat, and focused on the medics who were approaching, kneeling beside him. One of them quickly felt for a pulse, and nodded. "Pulse is weak, but he's alive."

The other medic was running practiced fingers over Charlie's inner arms, palpating. "No veins – he's pretty dehydrated. It'll be really tough to start an IV. Better get him transported, let them get one at the hospital."

Don swallowed as he took in the arms, the wrists, so thin; he could feel Charlie's ribs through his shirt, prominent under his hands. David and Colby stood behind the medics, concern in their eyes, and beyond them, Don could see Nikki and Liz still peering over the railing, their faces pale, solemn. The two women suddenly looked up toward the door at the same time, and turned and bounded up the stairs out of the way. Don saw the reason for that a moment later as two more of the rescue personnel maneuvered a gurney down the steps. As they set it down, he realized that Colby had knelt and was unlocking the cuffs that secured Charlie's leg to the chain that wound around the pole. Don caught a glimpse of his ankle, bruised, crusted with dried blood, and thought disjointedly that the cuffs must have been standard issue, since Colby's key worked. He reluctantly released his hold on his brother, and allowed the medics to lift him gently onto the gurney. Charlie's head lolled lifelessly against the medic's arm, and suddenly, the sense of shock was replaced by anxiety. They needed to move fast…

"I want to ride with him." Don rose, his head whirling. For some unknown reason, as he scrambled to his feet he snatched up the full bottle of water on the floor, and then he was trotting after the medics, who were trundling the gurney toward the stairs. It was starting to sink in, now – they'd found him, they'd found Charlie alive, but he looked as though he was barely breathing and Don was terrified that if they didn't get him help soon, they would lose him. He was completely focused on his brother – everyone else, his agents, the SWAT team, the ongoing search of the house faded into the background. As he made the top of the stairs and saw the SWAT commander, he was suddenly very grateful that he wasn't in charge of the operation. He forced himself to stop and confer with the commander briefly, making sure the man understood that he was leaving the site, and by the time he was finished, he had to dash outside to catch up.

The medics already had Charlie in the ambulance and were attaching monitoring equipment. Don was watching one of them strap on a blood pressure cuff when he felt a solid hand on his shoulder. He turned to see David. "Hang with him, man," Sinclair said quietly. "We'll close up here and meet you at the hospital." He paused for a moment, and Don got the impression he was being assessed. "You want us to call your dad?"

Don blinked. Dad. And Robin – he promised he'd call Robin. "Yeah – if you would. I'm going to call Robin." The medic was motioning him in, and Don spoke the last sentence over his shoulder as he stepped into the rear of the ambulance.

It was a tight fit. The inside was obviously meant for no more than two bodies other than the patient, and Don was a third. One of the medics squeezed in somehow up at the head of the gurney, and Don and the other medic faced each other over Charlie's prone form. Don felt a flash of gratitude toward them; he was sure they didn't buck protocol for everyone who wanted to ride with a victim – they were giving him some special consideration. He looked down, and realized that he was still holding the water bottle from the basement. He didn't even remember picking it up, and had no idea why he had – was it from some subconscious irrational conviction that he needed to give Charlie water? His mind wasn't working right, and Don realized that he must be teetering on the edge of shock.

The medic toward the head of the Charlie's gurney must have thought so, too; he had scooted around and bent next to Don, and had taken his wrist to check his pulse. Don started at the touch and then jerked his hand away, and took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. "I'm okay," he said gruffly, and the medic retreated to his cramped perch, but exchanged a glance with his partner. Don took a few more breaths; his head was starting to clear a bit, and he watched as the medics cut Charlie's shirt right up the middle, so they could attach monitors to his chest. He winced at the sight of Charlie's ribs; they were so sharply defined they looked like they could poke through his skin. That skin was covered with mottled bruises, fading, but they were everywhere. Someone had beaten the hell out of Charlie, for no apparent reason, because they'd left his shirt on for the photographs. Don felt a flash of rage, and his jaw clenched.

"Respirations shallow and uneven," murmured one of the techs, who was listening to Charlie's chest with a stethoscope. "He's pretty banged up, but it looks like the bruises are several days old."

The other medic looked at Don. "I heard you mention you were going to call someone?"

Don had been gazing at Charlie's face as if trying to reacquaint himself, but the thin pale face covered with dark beard, with its sunken eyes, barely bore a resemblance to the brother who had gotten off the plane over two weeks ago. The medic's words jerked Don back to reality, and he reached for his cell phone, hitting the speed dial for his home number. "Where are we taking him?"

"Loma Linda University Medical Center."

Don stared at him, momentarily forgetting that the call was connecting. "Isn't that a little far from here?"

"Forty-five minutes. The nearest hospital is at least a half hour, but we have direction to take him to Loma Linda – it's not that much farther. Loma Linda has a helicopter pad – dispatch says they're flying a specialist over from UCLA Medical Center."

A noise came from the phone, and Don fumbled with it, still holding the water bottle in one hand, and got the phone up to his ear. "Robin?" He heard her voice, and abruptly lost his, for just a moment. He heard her say his name, and then again, with rising anxiety. "We found him," he finally managed. "He's alive, but unconscious. We're on our way to Loma Linda University Medical Center." He heard her shaky sigh of relief. He had one eye on the medics, could see one of them peering into Charlie's mouth and down his throat, could hear snatches of conversation.

"…better check the airway in case we have to intubate. His tongue is swollen – his airway, too – man, it's almost closed. That'll be tough…"

"…we've got some tachychardia – damn, that pulse is faint. We better not wait for the hospital – we'd better try to scare up a vein, get some saline into him…"

Don watched as they put a rubber tourniquet on Charlie's upper arm and searched for a vein, and spoke into the phone. "David said he'd call my dad, but maybe you could, too – just to be sure."

His voice trailed off when he realized what he was asking – he had just directed not one, but two others to call his father, just to be certain he was there – to be sure his father got a chance to see Charlie, in case… He realized she was agreeing, that she was telling him she'd see him there, and he managed a good-bye, and hung up the phone. He had an almost overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and he closed his eyes, traveling back in time to a night, five long years ago, when other medics had worked over his brother.

He could still remember the sickening clutch of fear in his gut as he saw the unfamiliar vehicle drift down the dark street in front of the Craftsman, the lurch of his heart as the gun barrel protruded from a rear window. Then there were the shots, soft _thwups_ in the night from the assassins' silenced automatic weapon, and his own gun, sounding far too loud. Gunshots – they didn't belong there, on that peaceful street, in the front yard of his boyhood home. He remembered running toward Charlie, the sensation of the hard ground under his knees, and Charlie's dazed expression as he looked upward, the dark stain spreading on the front of his shirt. He could remember the residual guilt from their argument; he'd yelled at Charlie – not so much because he was angry with him, but because he was afraid for him, afraid and frustrated. He could hear Alan's shout behind him, and his footsteps coming across the grass, and then Alan's voice behind him, panicky, shaky, as he called 911…

* * *

_Saturday, May 30, 2009_

"_Donnie?" Charlie's voice was a half whisper, and he was still looking at Don with a look of disbelief on his face, looking at him as if for an answer, and Don had none. He stirred, and Don put a hand on his shoulder. Was that Charlie who was shaking so badly, or was it him?_

"_Stay down, Charlie," he said, his throat tight with fear. "You were hit – just lie still. We've got help coming."_

_Charlie's breath hitched, and Don could tell the initial shock was receding and pain was starting to assert itself, as his brother's hands crept toward his gut. "Ahh – ah God," he whispered, his face contorting in pain. He gasped, trying to gain control of his breathing. "Hurts -,"_

_"I know, buddy," Don said softly. Alan was beside him now, and Don lifted his head to look into his father's eyes. They exchanged a glance of naked fear for just a split second, and then they both tried to compose their faces for Charlie's sake._

_It was only minutes, but it seemed an eternity before the ambulance arrived, an eternity of Charlie shuddering and writhing on the ground, trying vainly to hold in moans of pain. The medics arrived and bent over him. "Hang in there, Charlie," Don whispered…_

_

* * *

_

Sunday, April 27, 2014, late morning

Don opened his eyes, and braced himself as the ambulance swayed around a corner. The medics were looking at him, and he wondered if he'd spoken aloud. He had a strange disconnected feeling, and he knew that medics were still watching him for shock. Maybe they should, he thought. He seemed to be having a hard time discriminating between the past and the present. The men bent back to the task of inserting an IV into Charlie's arm as soon as Don's eyes met theirs, and one of them exclaimed, "There! Got it."

He secured the IV in place, and hung a bag containing clear fluid from a hook. "This is just a saline solution," he told Don. "We'll try to get as much fluid into him as possible on the way there." He glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes since we left – we're about a half hour out." He looked up at Don, and spoke reassuringly. "We're getting some fluids in him now – pushing saline as fast as we can. It should help."

* * *

"Dr. Van!"

Peter Vanden Wymelenberg turned, and stopped mid-stride as he caught sight of the intern jogging toward him. "Yeah, Mike?"

Mike stopped, panting. "You're wanted on the roof, sir – they want you as a consult over at Loma Linda, like, now."

Peter raised a quizzical eyebrow. "For what?"

"Stabilizing a patient – severe dehydration, and apparently starvation to some degree."

Peter looked at him. He had spent a few years studying the effects of famine and dehydration in several locations in Africa, and had become something of an authority on the subjects of re-hydration and re-feeding. He'd moved on since then, though, to specialize in hematology, and besides, most of the time hospitals handled those usually relatively benign conditions without the help of a specialist. The only time he was called in to consult now on either dehydration or malnutrition was usually in the case of an ailing elderly patient who happened to be wealthy enough to warrant a specialist – and those cases were never emergencies. "Are you sure? Not a blood condition?"

Mike shook his head. "Well, they do suspect some hypovolemia, but that would be due to starvation, and the dehydration." He grinned excitedly, shot a glance sideways, and spoke in a low tone. "The chopper tech told me they called you because it's not just any patient – he says he heard from one of his buddies at the scene that they found that professor who's been missing for days – you know, the one all over the news. Anyway, Dr. Richards over at Loma Linda requested you head over there, pronto. We were sending the chopper anyway – transporting a patient back, and they said if you hurried, you could catch a ride."

Peter nodded, and started to trot for the elevators. "Make sure the admin knows where I've gone."

It had been a while since he'd been in a chopper, and he couldn't help but grin a little. A little excitement in his day wouldn't hurt a thing. Unfortunately, the ride was over in moments, and as he made his way down from the roof, he was met by his old friend, Dr. Jay Richards. Richards wasn't in charge of the incoming case himself, but he was in charge of the ER and the trauma unit, and had made the call. Peter got a quick briefing – apparently, the professor's ambulance was arriving as they were speaking – and then Richards was off to a surgery, and Peter was making his way down to the emergency room.

He stepped off the elevators and headed down the hall, just in time to see a gurney headed toward him. There was a dark-haired man in a flak jacket emblazoned with the letters 'FBI' trotting next to it, and with a little shock of recognition, Peter realized that it was the professor's brother, Agent Don Eppes; he'd seen him on the news. He saw the medics glance down suddenly and slow a bit, but they had startled looks on their faces, and then he realized that the man on the gurney was moving, his body jerking violently. "He's seizing!" One of the techs yelled.

"Damn it," swore Peter. The patient _was_ seizing, he could see the reason why from where he stood, and he took off down the hall toward them, in an all-out sprint.

* * *

Don breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the hospital. Charlie still hadn't opened his eyes, and the medics were frowning over his heart rhythms. It was all making Don very nervous, and he was thankful when they finally arrived. He was more thankful yet when they exited the ambulance, entered the building, and began heading down the hall toward an exam room. He'd been watching his brother, anxiously; he didn't look good, and so he was the first one to see it when Charlie started to shake. "He's shaking," he said, and the medics slowed down to look.

The shaking was growing more pronounced, and then suddenly, it was apparent that it was far more than a bit of trembling. Charlie had gone rigid, and was beginning to jerk violently. "He's seizing!" exclaimed one of the medics, and then they began to run, pushing the gurney. People were running toward them, ushering them into the nearest exam room. Don was pushed in with them and found himself in the corner, as a flurry of activity exploded in the room and the medical personnel surged around Charlie, swiftly swinging the gurney in place, hooking him up to monitors. A screen displaying his heart rhythms came to life, the uneven tempo of the blip on the screen as jerky as Charlie's movements. Don could feel his heart pounding with terror, the feeling intensifying with each agonizing second of the seizure. "Make it stop," he whispered under his breath, and then suddenly, the breath that he did have vanished, and the world seemed to grind to a halt. His prayer had worked; it had stopped; Charlie had stopped moving, and lay there motionless. An eerie flat whine was coming from the heart monitor, and on it was a line, just as flat. The seizing had stopped, and his brother's heart along with it.

* * *

_End, Chapter 21_

_A/N: I know. I'm mean._


	22. Chapter 22

**WP**

**Chapter 22 – Big Bird**

_A/N: Because you asked – here's 22. Someone asked if I have a medical background. Although I do have a master's degree in science, it is not in a medical field. I did do some fairly extensive research for this story, however, and I tried to use credible sources. I have tried to make it as accurate as possible, but you will need to take it with a grain of salt. In other words, do not try this at home…_

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Sunday, April 27, 2014, late morning_

* * *

"No pulse!" Someone yelled, and then another voice, at almost the same time, "He's flat-lining!" Don's legs suddenly were not strong enough to hold him up, and he staggered backwards a step into the corner, and leaned against the walls for support. It was a good thing he stepped back, because at that moment an apparition flew into the room. The doctor was easily four inches over six feet, with piercing blue eyes and blond hair, and his white lab coat billowed behind him like a cape as he lunged over to Charlie's bedside. "What in the hell are you doing?" he roared, and he ripped the bag of saline from the stand next to Charlie's bed, and disconnected it from the IV line.

The attending ER doc found his voice. "Paddles!" he commanded, and the intern prepping Charlie's chest stepped back. "Clear!"

Another intern applied the paddles, and Don winced as Charlie's thin torso jumped in response to the shock. He could feel bile rising as they applied the current again, and then the room went still, as a blip sounded on the monitor, and then another. Don became aware that he wasn't breathing, and he drew a deep shaky breath as he realized that his brother's heart had restarted. He suspected that Charlie was far from out of danger yet, however, and he kept one fearful eye on the heart monitor as the tall blond doctor spoke sharply. He was still holding the IV bag, and he shook it at the assembled health professionals. "Who was the idiot who started this man's IV?"

The group looked at each other blankly; it was apparent they weren't sure why the doctor was asking the question. The medics from the ambulance were still hovering around the doorway, and one of them stuttered, "I- I did, doctor – it was just normal saline -,"

"Precisely," snapped the doctor, and he shook the bag again for emphasis. "In someone with a severe state of dehydration, too much NS too fast can cause acidosis – you should have used Ringer's lactate." He looked at the nearest nurse. "Get him on some Ringer's, as fast you can," and she scurried for the cart and retrieved an IV bag containing Ringer's lactate, and began hooking it up quickly.

The ER doc spoke, quietly. "It's a good thing you came over, Dr. Van." Don was expecting him to sound resentful, but his voice was filled with respect. "What would you recommend?"

"I need a full set of blood tests before I can answer that, including his pH level," said Van, but his voice was calmer now, as he peered at Charlie. One of the other medics bent, grabbed a small flashlight and put a finger on one of Charlie's eyelids, preparing to lift it, and Van said, "Don't do that – not yet. His eyes are too dry – the lid will stick to his eye. Let's get some more Ringer's into him first."

He picked up Charlie's limp arm, pinched the skin the lightly and pursed his lips, then tilted Charlie's head back and looked into his mouth, down his throat. "He's pretty dehydrated, all right." He looked up at the medic, who was hunched miserably in the doorway. "Your instincts were right – you were trying to get fluid into him, and he needs it badly, plus you did a nice job of starting that IV – that had to be tough, in fact, I'm amazed you got it started at all. His electrolytes are completely whacked out right now, though, both from the dehydration and the lack of food. For a patient in that state, rapid infusion of NS can cause metabolic acidosis; I suspect his pH is hovering right at the 7.35 level right now. The lactate in Ringer's causes the liver to produce by-products that will counteract the acidosis – it's a much better choice." He raised an eyebrow at the medic. "You learned something here today – remember it next time you find an elderly person passed out during a heat wave."

The medic and his partner both gave an abashed nod, and shuffled off into the hallway. Don could see one of the medical personnel trying to find a vein to draw blood, and as he recovered from the shock of seeing Charlie flat-line, he could feel a sense of anxiety that was quickly morphing into irritation. This – Dr. Van, or whoever he was – seemed to act as though he knew it all, but as far as Don could tell, he hadn't done a heck of a lot. His brother was hovering near death, and all Van had done was to have someone hook up another bag of fluid. He straightened from his slump against the corner, and as he did, his eyes met Dr. Van's, flashing a challenge. "So, are you going to stand there lecturing, or are you going to fix him?"

Van's eyebrows rose, and a slight smile came to his lips. "Agent Eppes, good to meet you. You know, you really shouldn't be in here."

Don gave him a steely look. "Why, so I don't hear you spend more time ordering the staff around than you do working on my brother?" The staff looked horrified at that, and it made Don wonder if he shouldn't have shot his mouth off. The doctor acted as if he thought he was God, but from the reaction of the staff, maybe that wasn't that much of a stretch. What was he doing, anyway, fighting with the man whom he was counting on to save Charlie? He didn't even sound like himself; he needed to get a grip on his emotions, and he needed to do it now.

Van's smile turned sympathetic. "Why don't we step out in the hallway for a moment?" Over his shoulder, he said to the medical staff, "Keep an eye on him, and I want partial reports on that blood work as soon as the lab gets them – I don't want to wait for the whole report. Check him out for injuries. There's a lot of bruising there – it looks several days old, but we don't want to miss anything."

He began to move toward the door, and Don reluctantly moved toward it also, with a last look at Charlie. The emaciated figure on the table looked beyond saving, and Don swallowed hard as he followed Van out to the hallway, reluctant to leave, afraid that if he did if he would never see Charlie alive again.

* * *

Alan hurried into the ER entrance at Loma Linda University Medical Center, just in time to see Don push out through a door into the waiting area, accompanied by a tall blond man in a white coat. The doctor was talking, but Don had seen Alan and held up a hand to stop him, and the man paused and waited until Alan reached their side.

The doctor held out a hand. "My name is Dr. Vanden Wymelenberg – everyone calls me Dr. Van. I'm here from UCLA Medical Center, on request." He shot a glance toward Don. "I have a fair amount of experience with treating victims of starvation and dehydration."

Alan looked from face to face. "He's okay, then? That's it – he's not injured?"

Don and the doctor exchanged a somber glance, and Alan could feel his heart start to thump a bit harder. "What? What is it?"

"The primary problem is the degree of dehydration," said Dr. Van, quietly. "It's quite severe. Added to that is the fact that he is very malnourished – how long has he been missing?"

"Over two weeks." Don's voice was soft, and sounded as tired as he looked.

Van frowned. "Over two weeks? I would hardly think it's possible he would last that long without water."

Don gestured, holding up the water bottle, which seemed to have become a permanent fixture, like one of his appendages. "He had some water – I think maybe five other bottles, like this one." Alan could see a hint of fear in his eyes, and it didn't do much to make his heart rate decrease. Don looked at him. "His heart stopped in there, Dad. He-,"

Don's voice cracked; he broke off abruptly and looked away, obviously overcome, and Alan stared at him, just as speechless.

"We're doing everything we can right now," Dr. Van assured them. "We need to proceed cautiously. I suspect his blood work will show that his electrolytes are off, and we don't know if his kidneys are functioning. We can't jump in and treat him without knowing what is going on – we could do more harm than good. I know this is difficult, but give us just a bit of time while we get the lab results, and we'll be able to tell you more."

* * *

'Just a bit of time' turned out to be two hours, and by that time, it was early afternoon, and the L.A. team had shown up, along with Robin, Amita, Joanie and Larry. Don was again reminded of the night Charlie had been shot – the same group had assembled then, waiting for news while he was in surgery. The only difference was the presence of Joanie, and of Charlotte; she toddled and skipped about the waiting room, charming nearly everyone except a crotchety old man who sat in the corner. His demeanor and the fact that he obviously didn't want her there was of course a magnet; Charlotte kept straying over to him and gazing at him with huge eyes. Robin wandered behind her, and tried to head her off when she made for the old man, and finally Charlotte seemed to tire of him – she took off for the other side of the room. As Don stood to go after her and give Robin a break, he saw what had attracted Charlotte's attention; she was making a beeline for a tall blond man in a white coat. Dr. Van.

For a moment, the room seemed to stand still. Dr. Van had a somber expression on his face, and Don had the sudden conviction that he'd come to tell them that Charlie's heart had stopped again, that he hadn't made it. Then Charlotte came trotting up to him, and Dr. Van's face broke into a smile as he saw her. The smile looked strained, but Don's own heart started beating again, although it was doing odd flip-flops as he headed over toward the doctor. Charlotte was gazing up at the man, entranced, apparently, by his height and his blond hair. "Big Bird," she said, and Don saw Robin blush and try to hide a smile as she gently, deftly grabbed Charlotte's chubby little hand, and led her away.

Alan was approaching also, and he and Don got to the doctor's side as Van said, gazing at Charlotte with a wry smile, "I seem to have been promoted."

At that moment, Van's attention was arrested by a commotion at the information desk, and Don followed his gaze. Several reporters had come in through the ER entrance, and were clamoring for information from the receptionist. Somehow they'd been alerted that Charlie had been found.

One of them looked around, spotted Don, recognized him, and pointed. "Over there!" he said, and the whole group turned to look and started across the floor, exclaiming, "Agent Eppes! Agent, do you have time for a statement? Agent Eppes, what's the word on your brother?"

Dr. Van took one look and said quietly, "Come with me," and quickly ushered Alan and Don through the doors separating the waiting area from the ER exam bays.

Don caught a glimpse of David and Colby stepping in front of the doors as they closed, holding off the group of reporters. A woman, one of the ER personnel, joined them, and her voice rose behind them as she spoke sharply to the newshounds. "You can't go in there! In fact, you are not allowed in this waiting area. You will need to go outside, immediately…"

The rest of her lecture was lost as Dr. Van led the way into a nearby empty room and the door swung shut behind them. "I'm sorry about the wait," he said. "We've been trying to get Dr. Eppes stabilized. He isn't out of danger yet, but he's currently stable, and we've moved him to a room in the ICU. After we're done here, you can go see him if you wish."

"He's going to be okay, then?" Alan asked anxiously.

Van hesitated, briefly, before replying. "Frankly, we're not sure yet. He was severely dehydrated, and had been for long enough that he is suffering from some longer term effects. His blood pressure is low, his pulse weak, and his heart rate is still erratic, although that should improve as we get more fluid and electrolytes into him. We need to introduce them slowly, because we aren't sure yet whether his kidneys will resume function or not. They could simply be dormant, or they might have already ceased to function – the next few hours should tell us that. If they have not failed, his chances of survival will increase dramatically once they start to function again."

He paused for a moment. "He has some other issues. Normally, a constant flow of saliva irrigates the mouth and the esophagus. There are always bacteria present in those areas, but they are constantly washed away by the saliva. When a person becomes so dehydrated that saliva production ceases, those bacteria start to multiply, and invade the tissues of the mouth and throat. Mold spores, too, can take root – those areas begin to degrade faster than other parts of the body. As a result, Charlie's throat is infected and very swollen, and as we applied fluid, it swelled further, and began to close. As a precaution, we intubated him to ensure that he can breathe, and we also inserted a nasogastric tube to help with later feeding – we did both of those things before his throat could swell shut. We have him on antifungal drugs and antibiotics to combat the infection, but it will take several hours, maybe up to three days, before the swelling goes down enough to safely remove the breathing tube. If all goes well with his kidney function, he will likely regain consciousness before then. The throat condition will be very painful, and it will probably be uncomfortable for him to be intubated, and for that reason, we will administer pain medication and sedatives when he wakes. Those, and the lack of nutrition, will make him very groggy at first. And of course, with the tubes in his throat and the amount of swelling, he will not be able to speak, which may be frustrating for him – although he'll have so little energy at first, he may not have the strength to speak, anyway." His gaze shifted to Don as he said that, and Don caught the unspoken meaning behind the words – _don't try to question him concerning the case, he won't be able to answer you._

That generated a sharp little spurt of anger inside him, and he bit off a comment with difficulty. Yes, he was law enforcement, but he was a brother, first. What did this man take him for, anyway? He fought down the urge to speak, and concentrated on the doctor's next words.

"Once his fluid levels are stable and we are sure his organs are functioning correctly, we will begin with nutritional therapy, applying selected supplements through his feeding tube. Again, we need to be careful with what we introduce, and how fast, to avoid re-feeding syndrome."

Alan's brow furrowed. "Re-feeding syndrome?"

Van nodded. "It was discovered during World War II, with victims of Far East concentration camps. The body goes through drastic chemical changes during starvation, and essentially temporarily loses its ability to process carbohydrates – at least, large amounts of them. Feeding too many carbohydrates to such a person too quickly will result in a reaction called hypophosphataemia, which can result in cardiac arrest. Again, as with the fluid re-introduction, we need to proceed slowly and carefully, with a dilute solution comprised mostly of protein and fatty substances to start, and gradually reintroduce carbohydrates. We won't worry about that yet, however – he is in no shape to process food right now."

He paused once more. "Perhaps I've jumped ahead too quickly, here. I don't want to alarm you unduly, but I need you to understand his condition. There are no guarantees that he will survive this. In fact, if you'd brought him in just a few hours later, we probably would not have been able to save him. As it is, he is teetering on the edge right now, and I truly cannot tell you which way this will go. The next twenty-four hours or so will be critical. I suggest you spend some time with him, and call other family members to do the same." Don again felt the sickening sensation of his heart dropping, and he tried hard to keep that fear in check, to keep his head clear, as the doctor looked at Alan, and went on. "Obviously, the press will be ravenous for a story. The hospital administrator will want to talk to you about whether you will allow news on his condition to be released to the press. You can go ahead on up to his room, if you want, though – she said she would meet with you there."

His last statement had an air of finality, and Don, in spite of the man's flashes of arrogance, felt a sudden sense of panic at the thought of him leaving. "You're not keeping the case?"

Dr. Van's eyebrows rose. "As far as the hospital is concerned, I was called in to consult temporarily. I am a specialist, however, and can be engaged as another physician on the case in addition to the hospital doctor, if you request it."

Don and Alan looked at each other, and then Don looked back at Van. "I think we'd like to request that."

Van nodded, and Don could see a glint of humor in his eyes. "Apparently, I didn't piss you off too badly."

The blunt words were delivered with the ghost of a smile, and Don's own lips twitched slightly. "I wouldn't say that," he returned. "But if we want Charlie to have the best doctors available, I guess that means I'll have to put up with you."

Van grinned in response, reached for the door, and held it open. "In that case," he said, "I guess I'll have to learn to put up with you, also. Let's head upstairs – after you, gentlemen."

* * *

Alan tried to prep himself mentally on the way up, but he still wasn't ready for the sight that greeted him in the ICU. That frail, skeletal figure in the bed could not possibly be his son. Charlie's features had never been what one would call chiseled; his face always had a more rounded appearance, which was probably one reason he looked more youthful than his real age. That roundness was gone. Charlie was clean-shaven; Alan presumed that had been done by the hospital staff, perhaps to help secure the breathing tube that exited his mouth, and was taped to his cheek, along with another tube that came from his nose. As a result, there was little to obscure the view of the hollow cheeks, which matched the sunken eyes. Charlie's cheekbones; usually undefined; stood out in sharp relief. His skin was pallid, with an unhealthy-looking grayish cast. He looked… dead. Alan felt his knees wobble, and then felt Don's strong hands guiding him into a nearby chair.

As he sat heavily and gazed at his son, the full gravity of the doctor's statement hit him. In spite of Van's statements, Alan hadn't quite believed that Charlie's situation was so tenuous. Looking at him now, however, the full impact of how fragile Charlie's grip on life really was, hit Alan. He looked up at his older son, and he could see his own emotions – shock, fear, sadness - mirrored in Don's eyes. Their gazes met, wordlessly, and then they both looked back at Charlie.

"Stay with him, Dad," said Don, and his voice was soft, with a husky quality that made it sound oddly like Charlie's. "I'll go down and update everyone downstairs. There might be a couple of them that want to stay and see him – I'll bring them back up with me. I'm not sure how many they'll allow in here – I'll stop and ask on the way out."

Alan cleared his throat. "You might want to bring Amita and Larry if they want to come – they didn't get a chance to see him before he – disappeared." The implication in his words was clear, and he hated it, hated to hint at the truth – that after all of the searching and the hoping and the praying, they might lose Charlie after all.

Don stood there silently for a moment, gazing at his brother, looking tired and defeated, and then finally, he nodded and walked out the door. Alan could hear his footsteps fading away in the hallway, and then there was no sound, except for the _whoosh-click_ of the respirator, and the soft beeps of the heart monitor.

* * *

End, Chapter 22


	23. Chapter 23

**WP**

**Chapter 23 – Reflections**

_A/N: Thank you so much for your kind reviews. Although I have a disclaimer at the beginning of the story, I feel the need to insert another one here. In this chapter is a flashback to the original pilot episode, and I need to make it clear that for that section of the chapter, the writing is not mine at all, except for a couple of fleeting interpretations of Don's thoughts. The lines belong to Heuton and Falacci, and the characters' actions belong to Hirsch, Krumholtz, and Morrow._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Monday, April 28, 2014, morning_

* * *

Robin looked sadly at the form sprawled on the living room sofa. Don was out cold; even in sleep, he looked exhausted. He'd lost weight himself, and the bruises on his bare chest peeked out from the edge of the blanket with which he'd covered himself. She picked up his shirt from the floor, and sank onto the edge of the sofa next to him, wondering what time he'd come home. She hated to rouse him. "Don." She placed a hand on his bare shoulder. "Don, wake up."

He grunted and started, then blinked and closed his eyes again, although he pushed himself up on his elbow groggily. He stayed that way, swaying for a second or two before he jerked to his senses, opened his eyes, and looked at her, and the fear in them caught at her heart. "What is it? Is it Charlie?"

She shook her head, soothingly. "No – he's about the same. Alan called an hour and a half ago to tell you he didn't need a ride to the hospital. He ended up staying there last night."

Don's brow furrowed. "What time is it?" He shot a glance at the early morning light filtering through the window, flung off the blanket, and sat up. "I didn't mean to sleep so long. I should get going."

"There's no rush," she said. "Wright gave you time off, remember? And Alan said there was no hurry – Charlie's condition hasn't changed." Even as she said the words, she knew that her rationale didn't hold. If there was no change, that wasn't necessarily good. Maybe Don was right to hurry, right to spend as much time as he could with his brother. In any event, she might as well have been talking to the wall; Don was already halfway to their bedroom, headed for the shower.

A few minutes later, showered and dressed, he stopped on his way out to kiss her, and she followed him to door. Two reporters jumped out of their cars on the street and headed for him, but he was in his SUV and backing up before they could get across the lawn. Don sped off, and one of the reporters tossed his hat to the ground in disgust. The other one looked at Robin, and she quickly closed and locked the door.

* * *

Don skipped the elevators and took the stairs up to the ICU two at a time, for some reason in an unaccountable hurry. He blew past the nurses' station, ignoring the raised eyebrows, and pulled up at the entrance to Charlie's room, breathing a little heavily.

He nodded at the guard stationed near the door and stepped slowly inside, and Alan's head came up. "Donnie." Morning light shone through the window and illuminated the lines in his father's face – the creases at the corners of his eyes, the residue of smiles, but also lines that weren't usually there, marks of fatigue and stress. Alan smiled softly in greeting, but it was laced with sadness and he inclined his head toward Charlie's bed. "Not much change, I'm afraid."

"I thought Larry was going to run you home last night."

"I decided to stay. I was afraid Charlie would wake up and not know where he was, not be able to talk… Doctor Van was in this morning, and he seemed concerned. He said that although they've been replacing fluids very slowly, Charlie has had enough now that his kidneys should be processing it, and there's no sign that they're working yet." A sad, wistful smile stole over his face. "You know, your brother was one heck of a kid to potty train. As bright as he was, his bodily control took some time to catch up. He crawled and walked early."

Don stared at the sunlight, glinting off Charlie's mussed curls, and a snatch of long ago memory, of Charlie toddling across the floor toward him, flashed into his mind. "I remember."

Alan's smile deepened slightly. "In his defense, we started toilet training him early, maybe too early, because he was so bright. He had more than one accident, when he was two. He'd get so involved in something – his abacus, or his building toys – and although he was more than smart enough to know he had to head for the bathroom, well, I think he just ignored it, the same way he'd forget to eat when he was older, and got buried in an equation. I used to get so mad at him, although it was nearly impossible to yell at him – he'd look up with those big dark eyes, and those curls -,"

Don smiled slightly, himself. "Are you talking about Charlie, or Charlotte?"

Alan chuckled softly, but even that sound had a hint of sadness. He waved a hand. "Oh, Charlotte – forget about it – she had me around her little finger since the day she was born." His gaze retuned to Charlie. "I did get mad at Charlie, though; yelled at him more than once for leaving a puddle." His gaze drifted to the empty bag near Charlie's bed, which Don knew was attached to a catheter. "And right now, I'd be thrilled if he -," he broke off and sighed. "Well, you know." He looked up. "Actually, I could use a bathroom break myself, and a cup of coffee. Can you hold down the fort?"

Don nodded, and pulled over a chair, as his father lifted himself slowly from the armchair where he'd spent the night. "Not that bad of a chair," Alan said, gesturing. "It reclined, and they gave me a blanket. You want a coffee?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Don sat where he was for a moment as Alan trod quietly out of the room, and then pulled his chair closer to Charlie's bedside. In the light coming through the window, he could see every plane of Charlie's face, the rough texture of his dry, cracked lips, the glint of his matted curls. His face didn't look quite so drawn, quite so gray, but perhaps it was just the light…

"C'mon, Charlie," he whispered, although he knew Charlie couldn't hear him. Charlie was motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest, and that was due to the respirator; he wasn't even breathing on his own. Don's eyes fell on his wrist; he could see bruises and marks – several days old most likely, because when they'd found him he'd been chained at the ankle… "God damn it," he whispered, as the picture resurfaced in his mind – Charlie chained to the post like a beaten, abandoned dog, reaching for that last bottle of water. Don had hung on to that bottle all of yesterday, like a talisman, and this morning it had been sitting where he left it, on the front seat of his SUV, when he'd climbed inside.

His mind came back to the present, and he realized his eyes were still on Charlie's wrist. It was sickeningly thin, bone poking through skin, so frail. He suddenly couldn't look at it any more, and closed his eyes, and the soft blip of the heart monitor and the whoosh-click of the respirator filled his consciousness. He let his eyes stay closed, and his mind drifted back…

He could remember it as clearly as yesterday – the first big case they'd worked together. He'd come downstairs from a mid-afternoon shower at the Craftsman before heading back into the office. The clean shirt felt, good, crisp against his skin, after a day spent observing the latest victim's body, at locations ranging from a sweltering dusty construction site to the chill of a morgue. He'd rounded the corner near the stairs to see Charlie. Don still remembered his T-shirt; it was gray – no, some kind of muted green. His lean torso was bent over the table, peering at files – his files.

* * *

_Late August 2003_

"Charlie, what do you think you're doing?"

Charlie straightened. His eyes were huge, dark, and Don could see a dazed sort of look in them. He just stood there, still hovering next to the table, and Don pushed him away and began gathering up the files, as Charlie stammered, "Crime scenes – what kind of crimes?"

Don scowled, the look in his brother's eyes making his voice sharp. Had Charlie seen the pictures of the bodies? "Get away from here! These are confidential case files!"

His father's voice drifted in from the next room, as if in answer to Don's unspoken worries. "He just looked at the map; I made sure he didn't go through anything else."

"Good." Files safely stowed, still scowling, Don moved over to the mirror to put on his tie, and Charlie sidled next to him, leaning against the doorway.

"Thirteen crime scenes, spread over a contained region," he mused. "You guys are analyzing the significance of those locations?"

Don shot him a glance as he worked his tie. "Yeah, it's called Predictive Analysis. The FBI pioneered it. I trained in it at Quantico, and it doesn't work on sado-serial crimes. There's no way to predict the location of the next attack." His voice was abrupt, dismissive, but Charlie wasn't taking the hint.

"You know, I helped you on that stock fraud mess – the IRS extortion case…" Charlie left the sentence hanging, hopefully.

"Yeah. This is different." Don jerked at his tie, and turned away from the mirror, adjusting his collar. "It's not about numbers."

"Everything is numbers," Charlie retorted softly. His eyes drifted away, as if gazing into another world.

* * *

_Monday, April 28, 2014, morning_

The soft beep of the monitor intruded on Don's consciousness and brought him back to the present. He didn't open his eyes; however, his mind was still back on that first case. Oh, it wasn't really the first; as Charlie had reminded him, he _had_ helped out on the IRS extortion case, but it had been the first case where Don had really gotten it, that what Charlie did – his ability to quantify the world, to reduce actions and schemes and consequences, thoughts and minds and bodies to equations, to the predictable – could be applied to almost everything. Don hadn't gotten the connection at first, had thought math and serial killers existed on two entirely different planes. Charlie had proved him wrong, and they had spent the next five years together, working alongside each other. Oh, it took a while to come to an understanding, and even then they didn't always get each other. Often it seemed as though an argument simmered just under the surface, but gradually, they connected, or Don had thought they had. And then it was all whisked away…

"Don, here's your coffee-,"

Don jerked upright and opened his eyes, and turned to see Alan standing behind him, cardboard coffee cups in either hand, staring transfixed at the foot of Charlie's bed, a slow smile spreading over his face. At his expression, Don's head jerked back around, and he saw the pale liquid, an ounce or so, in the bag attached to the catheter, where there was none before. He heard Alan's voice come from behind him, with a gleeful chuckle. "Well, I can tell you, I never thought there would come a day when I would be happy to see him – well, you know."

They called for a nurse to let her know that Charlie's status had changed, and shortly afterward, Dr. Van showed up. He checked the bag, peered around the tube into Charlie's mouth, then called for a bottle of saline. He turned and looked at Don and Alan. "His kidneys are apparently functioning – not well; you can see that the fluid is somewhat cloudy and tinged with pink. His throat is still very swollen, also. The kidney function is great news, because he wouldn't have made it if they had not started working again, but he is still fighting infection, not just in his throat, but apparently also in his kidneys. He is still not out of danger, not by a long shot, but this is the first hopeful sign I've seen since he's come in. The more fluids we can flush through him and the longer he hangs in there, the better chance the antibiotics have of working." He paused and looked pointedly at Don. "You're quiet today, agent."

Don met his gaze, and lifted a shoulder. Van was teasing him, he knew, trying to get him to smile, but he was in no mood for it. "Everyone seems to be doing what they can for him," he said quietly, and he saw the glint of humor fade from Van's eyes, and be replaced by a speculative expression.

The nurse returned just then with the bottle of saline, and Van pulled on a pair of gloves, took the bottle, and turned back to Charlie. He bent over him and dripped a bit of saline onto each eyelid, and then gently rubbed the lower inner corner of each eye, trying to work the liquid in through the closed lids. "You've probably seen the nurse do this - irrigate his eyes. I'm doing it now myself, because I want to take a look at them. The eyes also are dry, and the tear ducts can become clogged," he said. "The nurse does this to moisten his eyes, but also massage the tear ducts, trying to get them working again. If he does become conscious later, it will bad enough if he can't speak – he'd be _really_ miserable if he couldn't open his eyes on top of it. Of course, he'll be extremely weak, and very out-of-it if he does awaken – the lack of food will affect his brain function, at least temporarily. We'll need to know right away if he wakes up, because we'll want to start pain medication. I've been holding off, because the pain meds depress the respiratory system, among other things. If he wakes, however, he'll need them. The condition of throat – well, the pain's excruciating, I've been told." He gently pulled up one eyelid, then the other, and Don got a glimpse of a dark iris turned upward. Van nodded with satisfaction. "I think we're already getting some moisture from the tear ducts. His eyes actually look pretty good, considering."

The nurse took a temperature reading with a thermometer, and Van frowned as he read it. "Yeah, that's pretty high." He was silent for a moment, his forehead puckered, his lips pursed, and then he straightened, and sighed. "Hang in there," he said to them as he walked out, but Don wasn't sure if he meant them, or Charlie.

* * *

It was one of the longest days that Don could recall, and he'd had some long ones during the case. Joanie showed up, then Amita and Larry. Sinclair and the other agents called from the office, three times, for updates. He didn't dare go outside; the press was swarming the place; he didn't even dare to venture into the cafeteria, because some of them, against hospital rules, had found their way in there, pretending to be visitors. Most of the reporters knew Don by sight, but not many of them recognized Alan, so Alan fetched both of them coffee, water, and lunch, timing his runs with the arrival of other guests. The nurses were letting them stay in the room without regard to their usual ICU visiting policies, but they were afraid to push their luck, so Alan would take off when someone else came, to cut down on the number of people in the room.

Don would stay in the room, but would step back out of the way, and found himself quietly observing the others. Joanie, with her intelligent, attractive face, filled with distress at Charlie's appearance. Larry, highly agitated, his expressive hands wandering to his face, to the top of his head, resting on a cheek, as if they had a will of their own. And Amita. She came in as Larry was leaving, her beautiful face sober, her eyes dark and filled with more pain than Don would have expected. She and Charlie had called off their engagement, after all – and that had been three years ago. Of course, she'd shown up to help with the investigation, but she might have done that for a friend. He studied her closely. There was no ring on her hand, so she probably wasn't committed to anyone else, at least not to the point of matrimony. Could it be that she still had feelings for Charlie? She looked up at Don suddenly, her eyes brimming with tears, and took one helpless step toward him, and he knew. She loved his brother, still. He moved toward her, and wrapped his arms around her in a comforting hug, and she stifled a sob against his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispered, pulling away after a second or two. She wiped her face and looked at Charlie. "This is just so hard – when I heard he'd gotten out of witness protection, the only thing I could think of was getting the quickest flight out that I could, and coming to see him. I never thought it would be to see him like this...,"

"He's going to make it, Amita," Don said firmly, his voice ringing with a conviction that he didn't think he possessed. "His kidneys are working again; Doc Van says his eyes look good – he's going to make it."

She looked up at him, trying to speak steadily. "I have to leave tonight – MIT has been good about giving me leave, but I am running a presentation there tomorrow that is crucial for obtaining some huge project funding. I'm in charge; I have to be there. It runs tomorrow and the next day, and then I'll fly back out here the night it ends." She sniffed, nodded, and wiped her face again. "He has to make it," she said, her voice quavering. "I couldn't take it if he left again."

Her words echoed in Don's head long after she'd gone. He'd had an awful time of it, himself, when Charlie had gone to WP; Don had been completely miserable, both before Charlie left, while he was in the hospital, and long afterward. He'd been grumpy, short-tempered, irritable, brooding – for months. It was a wonder Robin had married him. Not for the first time, as he thought of her, he was swept with an intense wave of gratitude, gratitude that she'd put up with him during that dark period, gratitude for how well she knew him, gratitude for her unquestioning love, gratitude for standing by him now. No, Charlie couldn't leave them again, because Don would be a basket case, he knew it, and this time, he might be too much for Robin to handle. Too much for himself to handle…

His eyes stung suddenly with tears, and he bowed his head, hunched in the chair by Charlie's bedside. With his eyes closed, the soft sounds of the equipment, which ordinarily were pushed into the background, became apparent, louder, more insistent. Blip…blip… blip-blip… blip-blip-blip-blip… He blinked away moisture, and frowned as he ran a hand over his eyes. That heart monitor didn't sound at all regular, and then it registered; the blips were coming faster. His head shot up, and he looked directly into Charlie's dark eyes. Charlie was awake.

"Oh, my God," he breathed, "Charlie!" He looked around frantically for Alan, but his father hadn't come back yet, and he turned his head back toward Charlie so quickly he got a kink in his neck. Charlie's eyelids were fluttering – open for just a bit, then drifting closed, seemingly unfocused, but Don had sworn that Charlie had looked right at him. His face was drawn, and with a sudden shock, Don remembered what Van had told them. Charlie was in pain – it was apparent now. He reached forward, and grabbed his brother's hand, giving it a quick squeeze, and at the same time jabbed the button to call the nurse. "I know it hurts, buddy, hang in there. I'm calling someone, okay? They'll get some pain meds."

"Yes?"

A woman's voice, slightly muffled by static, floated into the room and Don looked around wildly for the source, until he realized that it was coming from a speaker in the wall. "He's awake – Charles Eppes," he stammered at the box.

"I'll be right there."

She was true to her word, and she bustled in with pain medication to add to Charlie's IV. Don could see it, the pain in his eyes; he knew if Charlie had more strength, he'd be writhing in agony right now, but as it was, all he could do was blink, his eyebrows drawn slightly in tortured confusion. Don tried to catch his gaze again, but Charlie's focus was entirely consumed by pain, the eyes moving weakly with each blink, as if he were searching for a way out. Don was torn between hoping Charlie would stay conscious long enough for Alan to see his eyes open, and hoping for relief; _oh, hell, forget it, just give him the damn medication_ - God, he couldn't bear the look in Charlie's eyes. He squeezed Charlie's hand, as he went under. "It's okay, Charlie, it's okay. You're gonna be okay, now." He was still holding Charlie's hand tightly, still trying to catch his own breath, long after Charlie had slipped into medicated oblivion.

* * *

End, Chapter 23


	24. Chapter 24

**WP**

**Chapter 24 – Awakening**

_A/N: Hi all - thanks so much for the reviews and comments. As of today, I have officially finished writing. The story will end up at 28 chapters. I will be posting either every day or every other day now until it's finished. _

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Tuesday, April 29, 2014, morning_

* * *

Don actually made it into work the next morning. Charlie had been under since the day before from the combined effects of pain medication and a mild sedative. Dr. Van had determined that it was in Charlie's best interests that he be put into a medically induced coma for at least twenty-four hours so he wouldn't fight the respirator, and also to minimize his discomfort. When Don checked in by phone with Alan that morning, Alan had told him that Charlie seemed to be doing better; his temperature was down, and his breathing had strengthened to the point that they had put the respirator on assist only; it kicked in only when necessary. Dr. Van had stated that they might take him off the sedative later in the afternoon, and Don's goal was to get caught up and get out to Loma Linda by then.

Thankfully, late yesterday afternoon, with Don and Alan's permission, Wright had issued a press release with the barest details, that Charlie had been found abandoned and alive but in critical condition, and that his condition had stabilized and he was improving. It had been enough to eliminate most of the reporters. The networks and newspapers knew the drill in a situation like this, and reluctantly retreated to wait for official announcements. There were a few who still hung on, rabid newshounds from tabloids and the weekly news magazines, but even they had given up on staking out Don's house, much to Robin's relief. She had felt secure enough that she had taken Charlotte to daycare, and had gone into work herself that day.

Still, a guard had been kept on Charlie's room, more to keep out uninvited reporters than anyone else. The consensus was that Charlie was probably no longer in any danger from the Molina gang; if he'd been determined to be an ongoing threat, they probably would not have left him alive. Besides, there was no one left to order a hit – Frankie Molina and two of his top men, Pick Cordera and Sammy Gutierrez were all dead, and the one remaining man with any influence, Ramon Jimenez, had fled the country. Still, Don wasn't taking any chances until Charlie had gotten a chance to tell them himself about his ordeal, and had identified any other gang members who might be a possible threat.

Things were calming down, getting back to normal, and Charlie was healing. Don should have been relieved, but for some reason, he still felt on edge. Most of it was worry over Charlie's condition – although it was improving, it still wasn't good – but some of it was due to something else, something that Don couldn't readily identify. All he knew was that he felt letdown somehow, depressed and anxious, when he should have been feeling reassured, and thankful. He plowed into the paperwork on his desk, trying to occupy his mind, and succeeded for a while, but when two o'clock came, the time when he'd told Wright he'd be leaving, he was out of his office like a shot.

* * *

He found an exhausted but upbeat Alan when he got to Charlie's room. "They took him off the sedative earlier than planned," he said, smiling. "He's been stirring a bit, opened his eyes once and looked right at me, but he drifted off again. Shouldn't be long now, though, before he's more awake. His fever is down, and the infection in his kidneys is improving. His throat's still pretty swollen – Dr. Van said as his breathing strengthens they're probably take him off the respirator entirely, but they'll need to leave the tube in until the swelling goes down further. Dr. Van said they're actually going to start him on nutritional supplements through his nasogastric tube this evening, and he said when they do that; we should expect to see significant improvements." He sighed, contentedly. "You were right to suggest that Van stay on as his doctor – he really knows his stuff. Why don't you have a seat – I'm going to grab a coffee. You want anything?"

"Nah, that's okay." Don remained standing as Alan exited, shuffled his feet uncertainly, staring at Charlie, and finally, sat. The unsettled feeling was stronger now, and he frowned, trying to place it. _Just jitters_, he thought to himself, _you're still worried about him, worried he'll be in pain when he wakes_. He glanced at his watch, wondering how long it was going to take for Alan to return, and when he looked up again, Charlie was looking back at him.

He stared in shock for a split second, then said, "Charlie?" He managed to get hold of himself, and hitched his chair closer. "Charlie, can you hear me?"

Charlie's eyes were fixed on his face, and there was the faintest of nods. Even that slight movement seemed to tire him out; Charlie closed his eyes for a moment, and Don counted three full seconds before they opened again. He reached out, and laid a hand over the thin wrist. "You're in the hospital, buddy. I don't know if you were awake long enough before for Dad to talk to you, but you're okay – not hurt or anything, just dehydrated and probably pretty damn hungry." He smiled, trying to make his words light, trying to reassure him. Charlie's forehead furrowed, and his eyes went sideways left, then right, as if trying to get his bearings. He was starting to look agitated, and his chest heaved weakly.

The respirator kicked in suddenly with a soft hiss, and Charlie's eyes widened. Don could see full-blown panic in them now, and he correctly read the reason for it. "Charlie, calm down, you're on a respirator. You've got a tube down your throat, buddy, that's why you can't talk. Don't fight it; it'll shut off if you don't fight it." He was speaking urgently now as Charlie tensed, his dark eyes glazing over as he instinctively fought against the machine. Don, starting to become agitated himself, hit the button for the nurse. "Let it breathe for you, Charlie, stop fighting it!"

The nurse bustled in, took one look, and hit a button, and the hiss of the respirator stopped abruptly. "I'll have to turn it back on if he can't breathe well enough on his own," she warned, and they both watched as Charlie's thin chest expanded, relaxed, and struggled to expand again. His eyes regained focus; he was starting to look a bit more sane, and his breathing began to regulate. The nurse bent over him and spoke. "Dr. Eppes, I'll leave the respirator off for now, but I'll have to put it back on when you go back to sleep. It will only turn on when you need it; if you feel it do that, just relax for a moment and let it breathe for you, and it will shut off again. If you can understand me, blink once, slowly, for yes, or twice for no."

Charlie stared at her, still panting, then slowly closed and opened his eyes, one time. Don still had his hand on his wrist, and he could feel faint tremors running through him, from adrenaline, or exhaustion, or both. The nurse gave Don a nod. "Call me if you need me."

She padded off, silently, and Don looked back at Charlie. "Your throat's swollen, buddy, from being dehydrated," he said apologetically. "That's why they have the tube in there. It'll have to stay in for a little while until the swelling goes down."

Charlie took a deep, shaky breath through the tubing, and blinked slowly, once, to show that he understood. Don took an uneven breath of his own, and smiled again, trying to looking reassuring. "You had us going, there, for a while, but you're going to be fine. You've got another tube for feeding – I think they're going to start you on supplements in a few hours. The main thing is you're gonna be okay."

Charlie nodded this time, and his lids drooped. Don could sense that he was completely exhausted by his tussle with the machine, but he was fighting sleep. He closed his eyes once, then opened them again. Don regarded him for a moment. "Did you see Dad, earlier?"

There was a faint frown of concentration, then a look of recognition, followed by a blink. Charlie was still obviously very groggy, and it took some time to process a response – at least Don assumed it was a response, and took it a 'yes.' "He'll be back in a few minutes – he'd probably like to see you awake." Don sat back, withdrawing his hand, and Charlie's fingers twitched, then lifted slightly. Don felt a lump rise in his throat; Charlie was reaching out to him, and he grabbed his hand, and held on to it firmly, but gently. "Don't worry, buddy, I'm not going anywhere," he said, and with that, Charlie's eyes closed.

Don waited a full five minutes, hoping he'd open his eyes again, before he finally released his hand and hit the button to call the nurse. She came in and turned on the machine again, and it instantly hissed to life. Don frowned. "Why did it come on? He didn't need it before when he was sleeping; it shut off automatically."

She shook her head. "Even that little bit of consciousness probably exhausted him, and he's breathing a little more shallowly right now, causing his oxygen level to dip, both of which triggered the machine to come on. When he starts breathing more deeply, it will turn off again."

Don kept his eyes on Charlie's face. "I think the tube is freaking him out. He used to be kind of claustrophobic as a kid, maybe he still is. How long before he can get it out?"

She shook her head. "When he gets strong enough to breathe on his own without the machine kicking in for several hours, we can shut off the machine, but the tube can't come out until the swelling in his throat goes down." She smiled sympathetically, as she headed toward the door. "One step at a time."

Those steps came slowly, but they came. Charlie started receiving supplements at around dinnertime, which began as thin fluid. It didn't look like much, and Don's stomach growled, just looking at it; it was hardly a meal. By that time, David and Colby had stopped by to visit, and Colby made a face. "The guy needs a damn sandwich, not a bag full of vitamins," he said.

"They have to get him started on food slowly," said Don his eyes on Charlie's sleeping form. "Something about re-feeding syndrome, or something like that. Doc says his electrolytes are out of whack."

Colby shook his head. "I can believe that. Mine would have been out of whack after a couple of days. No way would I have lasted that long."

"You're probably right," said a voice from the doorway, and they turned to see Dr. Van. "A big, muscular guy like you would burn through calories a lot faster than an average person."

He stepped into the room. "I heard he was awake this afternoon, and wasn't too fond of the respirator. The electronic readout shows he hasn't needed it since shortly after he fell asleep. I'm betting we'll be able to take him off it completely by morning. I'd like to get the tube out of him, too, as soon as we can – there are risks and side effects from leaving it in too long. Maybe later tomorrow, if we're lucky."

David nodded. "When he's able we need to talk to him about what happened, and see if he can ID anyone for us."

Van pursed his lips, thoughtfully. "Even when the tube comes out, it's going to be difficult for him to talk, or even swallow easily for a couple of days. We'll need to leave the NG tube in for feeding – he'd normally be able to talk with that in place, but his throat will still be extremely swollen, and he is going to be very weak for a while. He may be able to point to some pictures, but it's going to be tough for him to communicate – and I don't even want him attempting it until I give the go-ahead. You literally snatched him from the jaws of death – his body had already begun the preliminary stages of decomposing, particularly in the area of his esophagus. Frankly, until this morning, I wasn't entirely sure we'd reversed this. A person doesn't recover from something like that overnight."

David had glanced, chagrined, at Colby and Don as Van talked, and looked back at him. "No, of course not – I didn't mean to imply -,"

"Not to mention the psychological effects -," Van began again, and David held up a hand.

"Okay, yes, doctor, I get it. We won't talk to him until you say so." He glanced at Don, who had sat back, with a slight smile on his face.

Van raised his eyebrows. "You're finding some humor in this."

Don grinned. "Just enjoying the show."

"Enjoying what show?" Robin's voice came from the doorway, and they turned to see her standing there, with Charlotte by her side. She looked at Don, who had risen to his feet. "I thought I'd bring Charlotte to see him – do you think that's okay?" Don was blocking their view of Charlie, and Robin tried to peer around him, uncertainly. "Is he awake?"

David headed for the door, with a meaningful glance at Colby, who followed. "We should make some room in here – I think we'll head out. Tell Charlie we said 'hi.'"

"Come back and visit," called out Dr. Van, pleasantly. "Just make sure it's a social call." He looked down at Charlotte, who stood staring up at him, wide eyed. "And _you_ – don't think I've forgotten that 'Big Bird' crack."

A smile spread across Charlottes' face, and she giggled, and pointed. "Big Bird," she crowed. Robin looked from Dr. Van to Don. "Do you think it's okay if she sees him? I washed her hands, and rubbed them with hand sanitizer."

Van considered for a moment. "It's up to you, if you don't think she'll get upset. He's still got his tubing in place."

"I'm not sure," admitted Robin. She looked at Don. "What do you think?"

Don was still standing so he blocked their view of Charlie, and he shot a glance behind him. Charlie was still out, in spite of all the noise in the room. "I don't know, either. I guess we can try it, and if she gets upset, we'll take her out." Robin nodded, and Don hesitated, and then stepped out of the way.

His movement caught Charlotte's eye, and she looked at him, and beamed. "Daddy." Her gaze moved past him, and he could tell she'd caught sight of Charlie; her eyes widened, and without hesitation, she trotted over toward the bed, and climbed on the chair next to it. She stared for a minute, then turned her head to look at Robin. "Unca Charwee," she said, solemnly. She turned back to stare at him.

"Well, she recognizes him," said Van. "That's pretty interesting, considering she can't have seen him much."

Robin's eyes were on Charlotte. "She was pretty backward with him at the airport when we picked him up. I've spend the last couple of weeks showing her pictures of him, and getting her to say his name."

Don stared at her, touched by her show of faith, and his face softened. "You didn't tell me that."

She flushed, and smiled. "You had enough on your mind."

They locked eyes, and Van cleared his throat. "Well, I'm needed in a phone meeting, but I'll be around for awhile yet. Let me know if you need me." There was no response – Don and Robin were still gazing at each other, and Van muttered, "I'll take that as an 'okay,'" and slipped out the door.

* * *

_Wednesday, April 30, 2014, afternoon_

Charlie's eyes drifted open, and he winced. Even with the pain medication, his chest felt as though it was on fire – although he had to admit, it got a little better each time he woke. He was starting to be able to think again, too; his recent memories were a hazy recollection of faces and voices, but gradually, he was staying awake more, and comprehending more of what was going on around him. Some of those memories were dreams, he was sure; particularly the ones of Amita – she couldn't be here; she was on the other side of the continent. The most consistent recollections were either of his father's or his brother's face, and as he focused on the room, he realized that his father was there now, smiling at him. "Charlie," he said, "how are you doing? Okay?"

Charlie gave a slight nod, trying not to wince.

"Do you remember what I told you earlier?"

Charlie's brow furrowed. He racked his brains; he could remember his father speaking to him, but he couldn't remember what he'd said. All of it was muddled; although it had gradually dawned on him that they had found him and he was recuperating, his recent thoughts weren't very clear. Somehow, the memories of his capture and those horrible days in the basement seemed more real. He shook his head.

Alan seemed unperturbed. "The doctor said the pain medication would make you forgetful. They've started backing off on it a bit, so maybe you'll start to stay awake longer, and remember more. They've disconnected the respirator, and they said the swelling in your throat is going down – they may be able to take out the breathing tube tonight." His smile broadened. "I know that will have to be a relief. You'll still have the feeding tube, and with the swelling in your throat it will be hard to talk and quite painful to swallow for the next few days, but it should gradually get better. By that time, they hope to have you ready for some real food. You've been on some kind of concoction that's high in protein since last night – very dilute at first, but they've been slowly increasing the concentration."

Charlie's eyes flicked toward a thin tube that ran from his face to a bag hanging from an IV stand. There was a small pump attached, and every so often it hummed quietly, sending a small measure amount of fluid trickling through the tube. He had half a mind to raise his hand to his face, to touch it, to feel where it went in, but his hand seemed to be too heavy to lift, and his eyes wandered back to Alan's face.

His father seemed to read his mind. "It's a nasogastric tube – it actually runs through your nose. When you get your breathing tube out, once your throat heals enough, you'll be able to talk with the NG tube in place. You're probably not feeling strong enough to hold a pen?"

Charlie shook his head, slightly, and then, sensing movement, his eyes went past Alan's shoulder toward the doorway. Don's face appeared behind his father, and a slight smile was on it. "Hey, Chuck, you're awake."

Charlie nodded slightly, and his eyes tracked his brother. He had a vague memory of Don sitting and talking to him, holding his hand, and he wondered if it was real. Not likely, he thought, Don wasn't the demonstrative, touchy-feely type. As if to contradict him, Don pulled up a chair, reached out, and patted the back of Charlie's hand. "Huh. Your hand's not so cold today. You feeling better?"

Warmed by the touch and the thought that maybe his recollection had been real, after all, Charlie nodded, and tried to smile. It had to be lopsided; he could feel the breathing tube pull slightly against the side of his mouth as he did. Don and Alan exchanged a look, and grinned back.

"Well, now we've got a smile," said Alan. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled; and Charlie was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia. "I'm going to take a break, now that Don's here. I'll be back, son."

He rose, and silence fell in the room. Don was still smiling, but it faded a bit as he studied him. "You look like you're a lot more alert," he said. "Like you're understanding us more."

Charlie nodded, and silence fell again. Abruptly, the warmth faded into awkwardness. Don shifted in his chair, looked away, and looked back again. It seemed as though he had something to say, but was debating on how – or whether – he should say it. Charlie waited, and unaccountably, his heart rate accelerated. His mind flitted back to their meeting at the airport; how uncomfortable Don had seemed. He looked uncomfortable now, and Charlie's heart sank.

"Charlie," Don began, then paused. He sighed. "I just wanted to say, I'm sorry about the party. I'm not sure why you left, but I imagine it was just too much, too soon. We should have waited, maybe just had you over for dinner that next day, or something." He looked at Charlie, miserably. "You were gone for over two weeks – I'm not sure you realize that. We were beginning to wonder if we'd find you." He paused. "I know you can't talk right now, but I'm hoping when you can you'll find a way to forgive me. I should have asked you what you wanted to do."

Charlie could feel a new kind of anxiety now, deep inside. Don was blaming himself for what happened, and that kind of regret and self-recrimination would only make him more uneasy with their relationship, maybe derail it before it could begin again. He shook his head, vehemently, at least he tried – he barely had the strength to move it. He needed to talk, to tell him that it was okay…

Don regarded him unhappily, and then sighed again. "Well, I'm not sure what you're trying to say there, Charlie, but no, it wasn't okay."

Silence descended again, and Charlie looked at him helplessly, pleading with his eyes. Out of all of his life's goals, only salvaging his relationship with Don still seemed to be a possibility. What would be the sense in making it through all of this, to survive, only to find there was nothing left to live for? _Yes, it is okay, it's going to be okay, say it's going to be okay…_

Don took a breath. "Why don't I tell you what happened on our end, after you disappeared. When you feel better later, and can talk, maybe you can tell us your side." He waited, and Charlie, desperate for him to stay, nodded.

Don began with Alan's phone call after he returned to the Craftsman to find Charlie missing, and recounted how he went searching for him that night in Burbank, Glendale, and Pasadena. As the story wore on, Charlie realized the full impact of the search – how many people were out looking for him, the fact that he'd been on national news. He still wasn't quite sure about the reason behind that; people disappeared every day, but he supposed the fact that he'd been involved with the Molina cartel made the disappearance newsworthy. All of it made him feel even more anxious; and guilty himself, somehow. He had never wanted to be the cause of so much trouble. Don was trying to skim over the highlights, he realized, as his eyelids began to droop again, and he tried valiantly to stay awake. Awake was much better than asleep – awake meant light, and family, and sleep was filled with darkness, and nightmarish memories. He blinked, groggily, and Don looked at him and patted his hand again.

"It's okay, Chuck, I was done, anyway," he said. The gesture brought a measure of peace; Charlie focused on it, trying to push aside the awareness of Don's obvious discomfort. The last thing he remembered was Don's face, as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

End, Chapter 24


	25. Chapter 25

**WP**

**Chapter 25 - Revelations**

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. Here's 25…_

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Wednesday, April 30, 2014, evening_

* * *

"Okay, now, I want you to take a deep breath, and cough."

Don winced in sympathy as Charlie complied, his feeble cough ending in a gag as the intern swiftly pulled out the breathing tube. His brother drew in a weak shaky breath, his eyes watering, and Dr. Van, who was standing by, nodded. It was after seven-thirty in the evening, Charlie had been moved out of the ICU into a regular private room, and Don glanced over his shoulder. Robin was due to come by with Charlotte, any minute.

Dr. Van spoke, as a nurse moved forward with a cup and a straw. "How does that feel, Charlie?"

Charlie blinked. His lips moved, slightly, but no sound came out. He looked at Van for a moment, and gave a slight nod, but there was a question in his eyes.

Van nodded back. "It may be a little while before you can talk again. Your throat is still a bit swollen, and will be pretty sore and irritated for a day or two. You still have the NG tube in for feeding, but that shouldn't interfere with speech or swallowing – and that's what I'd like you try right now – can you swallow for me?"

Charlie closed his mouth, and swallowed. He winced in pain as he did so, and it looked to Don like it was an effort for him, but Van smiled and gave a nod to the nurse. "Okay, the lovely Debi is going to give you a sip of water – just a tiny one; let's see if you can handle that."

Debi moved forward with a cup, and gently guided the straw toward Charlie's lips. He took a small draw on the straw and swallowed again, grimacing just a bit, but Don saw a look of profound relief come into his eyes. He leaned his head forward and took another sip, then leaned back and closed his eyes with a sigh that sounded so satisfied that Van and Debi chuckled. Her eyes twinkled. "Liked that, did you?"

Charlie opened his eyes, and smiled. It was weak and he appeared tired, but he looked more like himself than he had since they'd brought him in. His eyes found Don's, and Don smiled back at him, reassuringly. In spite of the smile and the look of relief, there was still something in those eyes – fear, maybe, or uncertainty. Or maybe, just reserve or a lack of familiarity. Maybe Charlie still felt uncomfortable around them – Don had no way of knowing. For all he knew, Charlie might view him as a near stranger.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Robin and Charlotte, who waited until Van, the nurse, and the intern all filed out. "Hi, Charlie," said Robin, smiling at him. "Tube's out, huh? I'll bet that's a relief."

Charlie smiled and nodded, and then his eyes fell on Charlotte, who appeared from behind Robin. His smile faded a bit; and he looked at her uncertainly. He hadn't seen her when she'd been there before; he'd been asleep the whole time. Don imagined he was probably remembering Charlotte's reluctance around him the first time they met, and he saw Charlie's eyes widen a bit as Charlotte trotted right for him and climbed on the chair next to his bed. She didn't stop there; she crawled right onto the bed next to him, and propped her favorite stuffed rabbit on her lap, as if to show it off to him.

Charlie glanced up at them; he looked a bit disconcerted, and Robin moved toward the bed. "Charlotte, you should get down, sweetie. That's Uncle Charlie's bed."

Charlie shook his head at that, with more energy than Don had seen out of him so far, and he held a hand up to stop Robin's advance. Don translated. "That's okay – she can stay there. That's what you're trying to say, right, Chuck?"

Charlie nodded, and his gaze drifted back to Charlotte. He smiled at her, a bit shyly, and Don had to grin at the role reversal, compared to their first encounter at the airport. Now Charlie looked apprehensive, but Charlotte was perfectly comfortable. She began to hop her rabbit around on the bed and began a lively discourse, not seeming to care that it was one-sided. Charlie stared at her, entranced, a slow smile creeping back to his face as she prattled on.

Robin stepped next to Don and murmured, "Well, that's going well."

He smiled at her. "Thanks to you."

She smiled back. "Where's your dad?"

"Home for the night. He's beat; he's been here almost non-stop."

Her gaze wandered back to the duo on the bed. "Charlie looks a lot better. You talk to him much today?"

"No. Dad was here – he said Larry stopped by again, and Charlie was sleeping. Larry's been going nuts; he's been dying to talk to Charlie about his papers, but Charlie's been out like a light every time he's been here."

As if to punctuate his statement, Charlotte turned her head and said suddenly, "Unca Charwee go night-night."

Sure enough, Charlie's eyes had already drifted shut. His right arm was stretched out sideways, between where Charlotte was sitting and the edge of the bed, as if Charlie had been keeping it ready to hold her up if she slid off. Not that there was much chance of that; Charlie could hardly lift his arm, much less hold Charlotte, but the placement of his arm created a natural nook. Don's eyebrows rose as Charlotte turned back to her uncle and lay down on the bed, nestling next to him between his arm and his chest, tucking her rabbit between them and closing her eyes with a contented little sigh. He and Robin stood there silently for a moment, just taking in the sight of the two dark curly heads, the two sets of closed, long-lashed eyes, the two faces composed, and completely relaxed.

Robin broke the silence. "I thought Amita was supposed to come back tonight."

"Yeah, she said she was. I think her presentation was still going on today – I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't late tonight before she gets here."

Robin glanced at him sideways, with a raised eyebrow. "You really think she'll come back?"

Don looked at her, puzzled. "Yeah, why?"

She shrugged and looked back toward the bed. "I don't know. They've been apart a long time, and Larry mentioned she's been seeing someone else – she might have intended to come back, but once she got out there… Well, I guess I wouldn't be shocked if she changed her mind."

Don shook his head, with conviction, although the news that Amita was seeing someone else was disturbing. "Nah, she'll be here."

Robin kept her eyes on the bed, and they rested speculatively on Charlie. "He's been pretty out of it until this evening. Do you think he even knows she was here the first time?"

Don was staring at his brother also, musing, and he shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe not – even if he did, Doc Van said the pain medication could make him forgetful."

Robin smiled, softly. "I'd love to see his face when she shows up."

* * *

Amita sighed with relief as she spoke into the receiver. "Yes, thank you, I'll take that one. Can you give me the flight number and exact time again?" She jotted the information down, completed the details of the transaction, and hung up the phone, gently. It was near midnight in Boston, and Jim had already gone to bed; she was trying to be quiet.

"So you're really going back there?"

Amita jumped, and rose defensively. She hadn't been quiet enough, apparently; her boyfriend Jim was lounging in his pajamas against the doorframe of the small hallway that led to their bedroom, his face dark and disapproving. A pang of something shot through her – regret, perhaps, or guilt. She tried to keep her voice level, reasonable. "Yes. I have a flight tomorrow morning. They didn't close the case yet – I'm going to help them finish it, and visit Charlie, then I'm coming back."

Jim's scowl deepened. "You already visited him. I've read the papers. As far as that case goes, most of the guys they were after are dead. You're really going back to see him again, aren't you?"

Her face twisted in spite of her best efforts, and she looked away.

He studied her for a moment and when he spoke again, his voice was heavy. "What does all this mean? What does it mean for us?"

She looked back at him, a plea for understanding on her face, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I don't know," she whispered.

He stared at her for a long moment, then turned and went into their bedroom, and came out bearing a blanket and a pillow, headed across the hall for the other bedroom. He didn't say a word, and the door closed behind him with a sound of finality.

* * *

_Thursday, May 1, 2014, morning_

Larry Fleinhardt puffed up the stairs, with the air of a man on a mission. He had been showing up every day after classes, but not once had he caught Charlie awake – late afternoon seemed to be the patient's siesta time. Alan had assured him it wasn't simply bad timing on his part – that Charlie spent much of his time sleeping and was rarely awake no matter what the time of day, but Larry wasn't convinced. He was certain morning would be a better time, and Thursday mornings were light for him, so he'd gotten someone to take his one class for him, and headed straight for Loma Linda that morning.

It was early, and there was a throng of people in the elevators – why, Larry wasn't sure; maybe people were stopping to see patients before they rushed into work for the day, like he was – but he was too impatient to wait, and he took the stairs. He wasn't even certain that Charlie would be able to communicate, but Larry was ready to burst; he simply had to talk to Charles about his papers. Someone had to bring him up to speed and let him know that research centers and prestigious universities were already trying to line up speaking engagements. Dean Wilson was deferring them, but he was promising that as soon as Professor Eppes was able, he would arrange a press conference and a question-and-answer session at Cal Sci. Larry snorted with disgust as he rounded a corner. Dean Wilson had tried to unseat Charlie from his position when he'd first appeared back at Cal Sci, and now, to hear the man speak, one would think that he discovered Professor Charles Eppes himself.

"Opportunist," grumbled Larry to himself, as he scanned the room numbers. Charles had been moved from the ICU the last evening to a regular private room, and Larry hadn't been there yet – ah, there it was; the guard was a dead giveaway. He nodded at the man, who recognized him, knocked lightly on the half-ajar door, and stepped into the room.

He was greeted by a pair of dark eyes, and a warm smile. "Larry!" The name came out as a whisper, but the expression made it an exclamation, and Larry beamed.

He strode over to his friend's bedside. "Charles, I can't tell you how good it is to see you awake. You look infinitely better." He caught Alan in his peripheral vision. "Doesn't he, Alan?"

Alan smiled back at him. "Yes, he is. He spoke his first words this morning since he's been back – you timed your visit well, Larry."

Larry grinned and rolled his eyes. "For a change." He looked back at Charlie. "I've been here every afternoon, absolutely frantic to speak to you about your papers, and you've been asleep every time."

The smile faded from Charlie's face, and he blinked. "My papers?" he whispered.

He swallowed and winced, and Larry had to try hard not to wince with him. "Of course, your papers. The research institutions, the universities – all the top ones – MIT, Oxford – you name it; they all want you to come and speak. Of course, Dean Wilson has been making the official statements for the university, and he has told them that you're in no condition -,"

He broke off, staring at the look of confusion on Charlie's face. "Charles, you _did_ publish your papers, correct? They weren't inadvertently sent out against your wishes?"

"Yes, I did, but -," Charlie whispered, then choked and coughed, his face contorted in pain, and Alan darted forward to give him a sip of water.

Larry stared at him as he recovered, and realization seized him. His jaw dropped. "You didn't know. Of course – you didn't know! You released your papers before you left witness protection."

Charlie nodded. He had composed himself, but his eyes were watering, and Larry tried to phrase his questions so they could be answered with a nod or a shake of the head. "They were supposed to have been issued to your list of recipients a week before you came home, but they were delayed – did you know that?"

Charlie's eyes widened, and he stared at Larry. He shook his head slowly.

Larry stared back at him. "My gracious – Charles, you really didn't know."

Alan was looking back and forth between them, as if he were watching a tennis match. "Didn't know what?"

Larry spoke slowly, and kept his eyes on Charlie. "Because of the delay, Charlie's papers didn't reach their intended recipients until the Saturday he was abducted – some didn't get to them until Monday or later, depending on shipping time."

Charlie swallowed again, and a look of pain crossed his face that looked as though it were generated by more than just a sore throat. "I thought -," he whispered, "that they didn't -,"

He swallowed, his eyes watering again, and Larry, fearing another fit of coughing, interjected. "You thought they had already been out there for a week, and since no one was calling, that they weren't being accepted, is that it? Oh, Charles, how could you possibly even think that? Good heavens – they're sensations, both of them, but especially your treatise on relative dimensional scales, and their role in the bridge between Newtonian and quantum physics." He grinned. "They're nicknaming your paper 'Size Matters,' – a rather catchy phrase, don't you think?"

Charlie was still staring at him with a dumfounded expression, and Larry chortled a little and shook his head. "Charles, don't you get it? You did it – you finally did it. They're calling you the biggest sensation since Einstein." He waved a hand. "Your life's work – all the talk about living up to your potential… You finally did it."

* * *

Amita, fresh off the plane, passed Larry in the hallway of the hospital. His news, that Charlie was awake and talking, or at least whispering, should have brought joy to her heart, and it did, but it was mixed with a sudden sense of trepidation. Five years was a long time, and they_ had_ agreed to move on. It wasn't Charlie's fault that she couldn't seem to do that, and there was a good chance that he wouldn't feel the same way.

"The same way as what?" she whispered to herself, as her walk towards his room slowed. They both must have changed, at least somewhat, in five years. Did she really still love him, or did she just love a memory, the reality dimmed by time? When she spoke to him now, when their eyes met, would she love him still? She paused at the doorway, knowing that in moments she might be giving up that memory, and a piece of her heart along with it. She'd come a long way, however, and she had to know. She took a deep breath and walked in the door.

For a moment, she thought he was asleep. His eyes were closed, and her first thought was how much better he looked. Oh, he still appeared frail, painfully thin, but the infernal ventilator tube was gone, and his face had filled in just a touch, and had regained some color. Then his eyes opened, and her heart stopped.

She just stood there for a moment as they stared at each other, and then Charlie whispered, "Hi," and her heart started beating again. She walked toward him on legs that seemed ready to collapse, and sank into a chair, hoping he couldn't see her trembling.

"How are you?" she managed. "You look a lot better."

He stared at her, confusion on his face, and then it seemed to clear a little. "You _were_ here, weren't you?" His voice was weak, just a raspy whisper. "I thought I was dreaming."

She managed a smile. "Yes, I was here. You were pretty out of it. I had to go back to Boston for a couple of days, and I just got back in." Silence descended. "I wanted to see you again."

More silence. Charlie was gazing at her, then he seemed to collect himself, and he swallowed, wincing slightly. "That was nice," he said, and they stared at each other, the inane conversation at odds with what was in their eyes.

Finally, Charlie took a deep breath and said, with that odd little tilt of his head that he made when he felt awkward, "So, how's MIT?"

"Good," she said, straightening and trying to speak with conviction. "Challenging."

"Mmm." He nodded, drifted into silence again, and she drank in the sight of his dark eyes. Beautiful… intelligent… eyes… and that hair. As mussed and matted as his curls were, she was still seized with the desire to run her fingers through them. Even as the thought occurred to her, a sense of giddy relief bubbled up through her, like champagne. She did still love him, she did! On its heels came a sobering thought - did he feel the same? It had been so long, could they make it work again?

He cleared his throat, and winced again. "I – uh -," he hesitated, then whispered, "Are you still seeing Jim MacDonald?"

The words came out in a rush, fast and sibilant, and she almost didn't understand him at first, she was so fixated on the sight of him. Jim's name hit her like a blow, and she stared at him and stammered, "How did you know?"

His face fell, and then seemed to close. He swallowed again, and whispered, "Larry told me. He'd heard it from some colleagues…," his voice drifted off, and silence fell again.

The speaking of Jim's name had brought him into the room, almost like a physical presence. She loved Jim, too, and to leave him would break his heart. That love was different; however, if she hadn't realized it then, she did now. The love she bore for Jim was comfortable; he was a safe haven. It had none of the passion she felt for Charlie – Charlie could be maddening, could get completely immersed in his work to the exclusion of all else, but they connected, and not just on a physical level. Charlie's mind fascinated her, and although she was sure that no one would ever truly understand the magnitude of his genius, including her, she also knew no one would ever appreciate it, be able to accommodate it and his eccentricities, better than she could. They had not simply been lovers or companions; they were soul mates, connected on an intellectual plane, at a level that seemed nearly spiritual.

Charlie closed his eyes, and a sudden sense of desperation took her. She didn't want him to take her response to mean that she was no longer interested - "I _am_ still seeing him, it's true," she said, and his eyes opened again. "But he's a friend -,"

He frowned, puzzled. "Larry said you were living together -,"

"I was," she amended hastily. "I mean, I am, but I don't think I can be anymore." Her words were coming faster now, tumbling over themselves. "He's nice, he's been a great friend – I know he wants to be more, but I c-can't, and I'm going to ask him to move out, and it's all a complicated mess -," she stopped short, a little breathless. His eyes were riveted on her, and had widened as she spoke. She stared at him a moment. "I still love you, Charlie."

There was complete silence for a moment, and she took a breath, and tried to speak more slowly. "I know it's been a long time, and that you might not feel the same way. And it _is_ complicated – I'm on the other side of the continent, now, and I'll have to find a way to break it off with Jim without hurting him too badly, but – I would like to try again, if you would. We can take it slowly -,"

He reached for her then, and clasped her hand. "I would," he whispered. "Like to try. Very much." And then he gently pulled her toward him, and for the first time in over five years, she kissed him.

End, Chapter 25


	26. Chapter 26

**WP**

**Chapter 26 – Dark Recollections**

_A/N: Thanks so much for your very kind reviews._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Thursday, May 1, 2014, late morning_

* * *

Later in the morning, Charlie found himself just staring at the bedcovers, his head spinning. This time, it wasn't from medication; in spite of the pain in his throat, he had requested that they take him off the heavier pain relief – it muddled his thoughts. The pain, although always present, was at least tolerable now with over-the-counter pain relief, and his ability to swallow was improving. Although it hurt, he'd tackled his serving of milk gamely that morning – the first thing that had crossed his lips, other than water, in days. He was determined to be rid of the nasogastric tube – the annoying thing that ran through his nose, dripping supplements into his gut.

No, his head was spinning with revelations, overlaid on the still-fresh horrible memories of his captivity. His mind was still trying to accommodate the juxtaposition of dark recollections and two astonishing disclosures - first, that his papers had not only been accepted for review, they were the talk of the mathematics community worldwide. He'd scarcely believed Larry, but then Matthew James, president of the university, had stopped by, and with him was Dean Wilson. They brought with them a number of letters that had been sent to Charlie at Cal Sci, letters requesting appearances to discuss his papers as soon as he was well enough. As Charlie read them, the enormity of the response to his work had begun to register.

Secondly, there was Amita's visit. Seeing her standing there had made his heart pound so hard that he thought he was going to embarrass himself, and pass out. That he'd even managed to collect himself enough to have a conversation was surprising, but then, the turn that conversation had taken… a soft smile came to his lips, as he remembered their kiss. That had made his heart pound even harder. She'd left him with a smile and a caress, and a dawning realization that perhaps his life had not been lost after all.

The morning was bringing other visitors, as well. Now that he was out of ICU the visiting restrictions were eased somewhat, and Doctor Van had declared him well enough to be questioned. David Sinclair had called to request an interview, and although Charlie's whispers couldn't be heard well over the phone, Alan had translated his consent. David was due any minute.

Voices at the doorway made Charlie look up. Sure enough, David was there, accompanied by Colby – and Don. At the sight of him, Charlie's newfound sense of relief fled and a faint sense of something – apprehension or reluctance – took its place. He couldn't quite define it, but he had the feeling that it had to do with talking about his experience in front of Don. After all, some of it would be an admission of shortcoming – his inexplicable, not to mention rude, urge to flee Don's party, even his ordeal as a powerless captive, made him feel somehow ashamed. And as wonderful as the revelations of the morning were, they did nothing to complete the biggest piece of the picture – they did nothing to make up the lost time, the possibly lost relationship with his brother. Don's presence was a reminder of that.

* * *

Don found his father in the hallway outside Charlie's room, and stopped to speak to him before he went inside. "Hey, Dad. How's he doing?"

Alan smiled. "He's good – a little tired, but good. Larry stopped by earlier and finally got a chance to talk to him about his papers. Do you know, Charlie really didn't have a clue as to the reception they've gotten? He had no idea that they were such sensations, that the press and the mathematical world are lining up to talk to him. I think it was a bit of a shock, in fact – he's still trying to process it. And then Amita came by."

"Amita? How did that go?"

Alan sighed, and his face fell a little. "Honestly, I'm not sure. Charlie wouldn't say much about her visit, and they seemed very quiet when I walked into the room. They _were_ smiling, but they weren't saying much - I couldn't quite get a read on things." He cast a slightly anxious glance at Colby and David, as they filed inside. "I know Dr. Van said he could be interviewed today, but truthfully, I think he's already tired. Maybe you can keep an eye on him, cut it short if need be?"

Don nodded, with a glance up and down the hallway, wondering if Amita was still around, wondering if he should have a chat with her, later. "Yeah, Dad, we'll try to keep it brief." He left Alan standing in the hall with a slightly perturbed look on his face.

After so many hours at Charlie's bedside, it felt odd to stand back and let David and Colby do the talking, but Don did. He knew from the knot in his gut that listening to the details of Charlie's captivity would hit him hard, and put a greater strain on his objectivity than anything that had happened before. So, he contented himself with remaining in the background, leaning against a wall – but not so far away that he couldn't hear Charlie's whispered revelations.

He watched as Colby carefully laid a notebook full of pictures in Charlie's lap. Charlie still looked frail, not strong enough to sit; he had to be propped against pillows. He looked far more awake, however, dark eyes wide and alert in the thin pale face. Charlie had glanced at Don and smiled faintly as they came in, but then turned his attention to David and Colby. It almost seemed as though he was avoiding looking at him… Don shook the thought off. His brother was still obviously very weak, and it was taking all of his efforts to focus on what was in front of him, that was all. It couldn't be that Charlie didn't want him there.

David pointed to the first page of pictures. "Charlie, we know you can't speak too well yet, and maybe you can conserve a few words if you just point to pictures. We're hoping you can first identify the men who kidnapped you, the day of the party."

That elicited a quick glance sideways from Charlie, Don noted, and an almost guilty look directed at him. He frowned in confusion, and Charlie flushed slightly and looked quickly back at the page. There were eight pictures on it, and two of them were of Abrego and Laguna. Without hesitation, Charlie pointed to their pictures.

He tapped Laguna's picture and whispered. "He picked me up in a cab," – swallow – "in downtown Burbank." He paused and swallowed again, wincing slightly. "I was trying to get a ride back to the cookout." He looked at Don as he said the words, with an expression that pleaded forgiveness.

Don stared back at him, perplexed. "You talked to Dad on the phone – you said you were going back home."

"I know," Charlie whispered. He coughed a little, cleared his throat. "I changed my mind." He looked back down at the pictures, ruefully, and the next whisper was so soft that it could barely be heard. "Not that it mattered."

Don's mind drifted back to that evening, remembering his frustration, his irritation with Charlie when he'd found out he left the party, and felt a pang of regret. He'd been angry at Charlie, griped about his departure to his father and Robin, and all along, Charlie had been intending to do the right thing and come back. And while Don had been complaining, Charlie had already been in the clutches of Laguna and Abrego. Of course, he'd had no way of knowing that, but that didn't make him feel any better. He closed his eyes.

David Sinclair's voice sounded. "Which one picked you up?"

There was no answer, and Don opened his eyes to see Charlie pointing to Laguna's picture. He whispered. "A few blocks later, he pulled over, and Carlos got in the cab. He had a gun. We rode to the warehouse."

The sentences were brief. Charlie was trying to spare his voice, Don knew. He waited, watching for another glance his way, but Charlie was now keeping his eyes forward, trained dutifully on David and Colby, and the pictures.

David turned a page, and pointed to some snapshots of the room at the abandoned warehouse. "Is this where they took you?"

Charlie blinked, and stared at the picture for a long moment. "Yes," he said. "They chained me to that post." He pointed.

Colby had been studying him, and he finally spoke, his face softened with concern. "Did Laguna or Abrego hurt you?"

Charlie shook his head.

"Did they give you anything? Food, water?"

Charlie blinked again, and looked at him. "Yes," he whispered. The whispers were beginning to sound raspier, tired. His face flushed slightly, and it seemed to Don, oddly, that he looked ashamed. "The evening they picked me up, they took me to try to get money out of the ATMs – my card had expired, and it didn't work, so they took me back to the warehouse."

He paused to get his breath, and David said, "Yeah, we got video of it, from the bank."

Charlie nodded. "Not the next day, but the one after that, they brought me a bottle of water and a hamburger. They told me if I did what they said, they'd give me the food." Swallow. "If I didn't, they'd kill me."

Don could feel the knot in his gut transforming, changing from anxiety to anger at Charlie's captors. Charlie was in profile, and was no longer sending glances Don's way. It made it hard to get a read on how tired or upset he might be, and Don took a deep breath, turned, and walked slowly to his right, moving directly behind Colby and David so he could see Charlie' face. David was speaking. "That was when they asked you to call the bank."

Charlie nodded. "Yes." Dark eyes tracked Don's movement and then flitted away when Don stopped walking and turned to look at him.

David kept going. He was trying to talk for him, to minimize the effort that Charlie had to make. It wasn't exactly by-the-book questioning, but Charlie wasn't making an official statement – that would come later. Right now, they were simply trying to establish what had happened, and whether there were any others out there that still might be a threat. "But before they could come back to get you, Molina's men showed up."

Charlie nodded again. "It wasn't long after Laguna and Abrego left."

David glanced at Colby and over his shoulder at Don. "So that was Monday." He turned back to Charlie. "What time, did you know?"

Charlie's brow furrowed and he closed his eyes, trying to remember. Even though he was propped against pillows, his upper body swayed a bit, and Don interjected. "He's tired. Maybe that's enough for today."

Charlie opened his eyes, and shook his head. "I'm okay," he whispered. He paused, swallowed. "I think it was midday, sometime."

"Okay," said David, with an uncertain glance at Don, wondering if he should continue. Don gave him a nod, and he put another book in front of Charlie. "Do you recognize any of these men? First, can you point out the men who came to get you at the warehouse?"

Charlie scanned the open pages, and pointed. "That one – they called him 'Ramon.' And that one – they called him 'Pick.'" He coughed, his eyes watering, and Don's lips tightened. He could feel the anger spiraling inside him as a vision of the picture of Charlie's battered face rose in his mind.

"Did they bring you anywhere before the house, where we found you?"

Charlie shook his head to answer the question, and wiped his eyes with a shaking hand. He leaned his head back against the pillows for a moment.

"Maybe Don's right, maybe we should stop," said Colby softly to David, his blue eyes troubled.

Charlie lifted his head, and pointed at the page again. "They were his men - Frankie Molina." He touched Molina's picture. "And he one was one of them." His finger tapped the photo of Sammy Gutierrez. He studied the pages for a moment, David turning them for him, and identified two more men with certainty, and a possible third.

Don couldn't stand it anymore. He had to know. "Which one hit you, Charlie?"

Charlie looked up at him, and the question seemed to strip him of his ability to concentrate, to hide his emotions. For a moment, Don could see his ordeal mirrored in his eyes – the fear, the pain, the sense of hopelessness. Years ago, he'd faced the kidnapper of one of his agents, a serial killer named Crystal Hoyle. She'd been the only person he'd ever truly wanted to kill – until now. He spoke through clenched teeth, his voice deceptively soft, ignoring David and Colby's speculative gazes. "Which one was it, Charlie? Or was there more than one?"

"Which time?" Charlie's whisper was even, but the words and his look in his eyes made the knot in Don's gut twist tighter, painfully tight. Don couldn't answer; he didn't trust his voice, and after a brief pause, Charlie swallowed, and continued. "They tied and blindfolded me, and brought me to the house in the trunk of their car. They left me in a room for a few hours, then brought me to another room and took my picture. Then they put me in the basement." He stopped for a moment, just breathing, trying to catch his breath. "I think it was the next day, maybe, they brought me up again. I think – they wanted to bloody my face for the next picture."

He looked up at Don, and then away, and then back down at the page, and stared at the picture of Pick Cordera. "He did it."

"Pick Cordera," confirmed David, taking notes.

Colby looked troubled. "You said 'which time?' Did that happen more than once?"

Charlie hesitated again, with another furtive glance at Don. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "Pick wasn't finished – he liked hitting people, I think. He wanted to use a broom handle before they took the picture, but they wouldn't let him. Ramon stopped him." He paused, swallowed again, took a breath. The next whisper sounded shaky. "Later, Pick came down in the basement with another man, and the broom handle…," His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes.

Don felt the rage, could almost see it like a visual aura, a red mist on the edges of his vision. It was a good thing that Pick Cordera was already dead…

There was complete silence for a moment, then David looked at Colby and said quietly, "We got that?" He didn't specify, but Don knew he meant the broom handle.

"Yeah," replied Colby softly, reading David's unspoken words with the ease of a long-time partner. "Found it in the basement – it was entered into evidence."

Charlie opened his eyes and spoke again, his gaze downcast, his whisper this time sounding dead, and defeated. "That was just before they left. They left me some water – it sounded as though they were coming back, but they never did." He looked up again, and Don's heart nearly broke at the look in his eyes. "I didn't think you'd find me."

The few words spoke volumes; they were an admission of what Charlie had felt, had thought, during those dark days in the basement. Don's eyes searched his face, wondering just how bad it had been. Had Charlie held out all that time – had hope sustained him? Or had he finally given up? Don felt instinctively it was an important distinction, regardless of the outcome. To accept one's own impending death, to succumb to that dark thought, had to leave a mark on one's psyche. He couldn't stand the thought. "You knew we were coming for you, though, right, Charlie? You knew that."

Charlie stared at him for a long moment, and the bleak look in his eyes told Don the answer to his question before his brother even answered. "I thought that, at first. But after several days – well, I just couldn't see how you would know where I was…,"

There was silence for a moment, then David said, his voice filled with intensity, "You know, Charlie, we _didn't_ know where you where. You need to know, though, that your brother never gave up – ever. It was his refusal to quit – to go over every avenue again and again if necessary, that finally led us to you."

Silence followed his statement, but echoes of David's emotional words still rang in the room, and Charlie finally looked back at Don. His dark eyes were filled with gratitude that shone through the weariness and pain, and said more than words could. "I know," he whispered, his eyes still on Don's. "He's always had my back."

He swallowed again, looked away, laid his head back against the pillow, and closed his eyes. "I'm pretty tired," he whispered, and David hastily shut and gathered up the books.

"That's fine, Charlie," David said, a little too heartily. "We're done here. We'll have you come in for an official statement later, but there's no rush for that. Thanks for your help."

Charlie gave a brief nod but didn't open his eyes, and David and Colby rose from their seats and headed for the door. Don hesitated just a moment, moving to stand at Charlie's bedside. For a moment, he thought his brother had already drifted off, but then Charlie opened his eyes and looked at him. "I'm sorry," whispered Charlie, miserably. "I shouldn't have left your party – I caused so much – trouble."

Don was so taken aback by the statement, he could say nothing for a moment; instead he just knelt beside him and reached for Charlie's hand. When he spoke, his voice was husky with emotion. "Charlie, don't be ridiculous – this wasn't your fault."

Charlie shook his head, slightly. "I should have fought them, should have done - something."

Don shook his head, fighting for control, fighting back a wave of emotion. Now he understood Charlie's embarrassed expressions during the interview. "Charlie, no, you shouldn't have. You were always outnumbered, and they were armed and you weren't. You did exactly what you needed to do, to survive. I'm proud of you, buddy – the way you hung in there – you need to know that I'm really proud of you."

Charlie stared back at him for a moment, and almost imperceptibly, Don could see his face relax, could see some of the desolation leave his eyes. He nodded, faintly. "Thank you," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

Don stayed there, kneeling, with his hand on Charlie's until his breath became regular, and he was sure Charlie was asleep. It took only a minute or two, and he stepped out of the room in time to see David shake his head, and hear him say softly to Colby, "Did you see the look on Don's face? It's good thing Cordera's already gone."

He broke off as Colby looked over his shoulder, and turned to see Don emerging from the doorway. "I'm sorry, man," he stammered, "I didn't mean -,"

"Yes, you did," said Don blandly, "and it doesn't matter, I had the same thought myself."

David stared at him, nonplussed, and then just as dumbfounded at Colby, as he muttered, "You would've had to beat me to him." Colby and Don fell into step together down the hallway, and David hastily collected himself and hurried after them. Don hid a grim smile. David had always been the one to play by the rules, and it was fun to rattle him. He pushed aside the darker thought, the voice in his head that said this time, he wasn't kidding. Yes, David was absolutely right; it was a good thing Pick Cordera was already dead…

"I didn't hear any of that," said David. They fell into step together down the hallway, and David flicked a sideways glance at the guard as they passed him.

"Charlie didn't identify anyone we didn't already know about," he said quietly. "There are a few lower-ranking gang members still at large, but they haven't been seen in days – they've probably left the area. The only other one still alive is Ramon Jimenez, and he's left the country. I think it's probably okay for us to tell LAPD to pull that guard now – I think Charlie's safe."

Don nodded, reluctantly. "Yeah, I guess so." David was right, there really was no reason for the guard any longer; and there was no way LAPD would justify paying for one anymore, based on the evidence. He glanced around the hallways as they walked, hoping to see Amita, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He, Colby and David had all arrived together at the hospital, but they'd driven separately – David and Colby in David's SUV, and Don in his own. They split up in the parking lot, and Don headed for his vehicle and got in behind the wheel. His gaze fell on Charlie's water bottle, which he had moved from the front passenger seat to his cup holder. For a moment, he just sat there, thinking about Charlie in the basement, thinking about what he'd gone through – the sense of helplessness, the pain, and the certainty that he was facing death. A picture of him lying there, reaching for that water bottle, rose in Don's mind, and he stared at the bottle and watched the sun wink off the molded facets in the plastic. After Charlie got on his feet again, Don had been meaning to ask him if he would consider coming back to consult, but now, he wondered if should. Hadn't Charlie had enough of darkness, the nasty side of the world? After his ordeal and nearly five years in WP, was it even fair to ask him?

Finally, he started the SUV, heading back toward the routine of the office, wondering if anything would ever feel routine again.

End, Chapter 26

_A/N: Two more chapters, and a bit of action to go, yet…_


	27. Chapter 27

**WP**

**Chapter 27 – Mr. Math God**

_A/N: I will be posting the final chapter this evening._

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

_Tuesday, May 21, 2014, morning_

* * *

Charlie was in the hospital for almost two weeks. He progressed to solid food during that time, and went through enough physical therapy to get him on his feet. Dr. Van had told him that it would be some time before he'd regain his full strength; his muscles had atrophied due to the forced inactivity and the fact they'd also been used by his body as a source of fuel. By the time Charlie left the hospital, he was physically able to walk about the house and make it up and down the stairs, but he was still weak, and decidedly on the thin side.

Charlie came home to the Craftsman the way he remembered it. Although he hadn't said anything about the new furniture, Alan felt instinctively that what he really wanted was his home, the way it had been when he left for witness protection. While he was in the hospital, Don and Alan got all of his old furniture out of storage, and moved the new furniture to the condominium that Joanie had found. Alan had decided to stay on at the Craftsman while Charlie was recuperating, and Don had the feeling that the stay might be longer than that. His father and Joanie, while they were very comfortable together and were technically engaged, seemed in no hurry to set a date for their marriage.

The Tuesday after Charlie was released, he was scheduled to attend a question-and-answer session on his papers at Cal Sci – the first public session, and a long-anticipated one by the scientific community. Alan fretted that it was too soon, but the pressure for Charlie to appear and discuss his papers was tremendous, and Charlie insisted he was up to it. Don took some time off to go watch the proceedings, partly out of curiosity, and partly to help Charlie navigate the crowd of reporters that were sure to be there, as it was Charlie's first public appearance of any kind since his captivity.

The truth was, Don was looking for an excuse to visit. In the past, before he'd married Robin, he'd frequently showed up at the Craftsman after work, in time for dinner. The meal had been his excuse to be there, although the company of his father and brother were more what he'd been after than the food, as good as his father's cooking was. Now, he ate at home with Robin and Charlotte, and by the time he spent some quality time with them, or ferried Charlotte to her dance classes, it was usually too late to head to the Craftsman. Charlie was still recuperating, after all, and needed his rest.

He did look rested, Don decided, as he stepped in the front door of the Craftsman. Charlie was descending the stairs, wearing a new sports jacket, with Alan behind him. Charlie smiled when he saw him, and Don thought he detected pleasure in his younger brother's eyes, but the smile was reserved, a bit too polite. "I'm glad you could come," said Charlie, simply.

Don smiled back. "I wouldn't miss it."

Alan was surveying Charlie's attire, frowning. "Don't you think you should wear a tie?"

"Too stuffy," said Charlie, "and it will be too hot under the lights. Anyway, no one wears a tie for anything other than weddings or funerals anymore. I'm wearing a jacket and a shirt with a collar, that's enough."

He sounded like Charlie of old; he seemed to have regained some of his confidence back, although Don knew from Alan that it came at a price. In addition to Charlie's physical therapy sessions, he'd also had some appointments with a psychologist to help him deal with the mental trauma of his captivity. He'd been progressing, Alan told Don, but still had problems with nightmares, and was experiencing a re-emergence of claustrophobia, a problem he'd had when he was young. It was no wonder that he didn't want to wear a tie.

They took Don's SUV, and Don drove, noting that Charlie was drinking in the sights of the familiar streets. He made a stab at conversation. "Haven't been out much yet, huh?"

Charlie kept his eyes on the street. "No, actually. It's good to get out. I went to the grocery store with Dad yesterday – other than therapy appointments, that's the only time I've been out since, well, since I got back."

One thing had become apparent to Don during the last two weeks, and that was that normal life was going to offer little opportunity for Charlie and him to interact. That situation would only get worse when Charlie started back to Cal Sci on a regular basis. The irony wasn't lost on him – Charlie was finally home, and yet Don could almost feel their relationship slipping away, day by day. He'd been agonizing over whether to ask him to come back to consult at the FBI offices again – he was sure it would be the best thing for their relationship, but he wasn't entirely certain it was the best thing for Charlie. With the success of his papers, Charlie's academic life was in overdrive right now, and even his love life had sparked. His brother didn't talk about it much – hell, they'd had very little time to talk one-on-one – but Don knew from Alan that Charlie and Amita were going to try to rekindle their relationship. Charlie had enough on his plate, and Don was afraid that it really wasn't fair to ask him to come back – especially not after everything he'd been through. He'd gone over it repeatedly in his head, and even discussed it with Robin and his rabbi, both of whom had offered the same advice. Robin, as always, was practical. "You still look at him as your little brother. Charlie's a grown man," she had said. "Just ask him. He can always say 'no.'"

Don wasn't sure how he'd even handle that response, but he had finally made up his mind to ask him – but he wanted to feel him out a bit first. To do that, they needed an opportunity to talk, and as Don passed a familiar intersection, he had an inspiration. "You know, I take Charlotte to dance classes twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The dance studio is in Pasadena – right down that road, actually – I could swing by and get you, if you want to come. The class is only an hour – I usually stay and watch her. Those are Robin's late nights, so I most of the time, I end up taking Charlotte." He glanced sideways, hopefully.

Charlie turned and looked at him then, and a smile broke over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that. How's Charlotte doing? She had a little bit of a stomach ache on Sunday after dinner."

"Fine," said Don, with a grin. "I think she just had a little too much dessert." Charlie and Charlotte had formed quite a connection while he was in the hospital, and Don and Robin had brought her over for dinner both Sundays since Charlie had been home. "She asks about you, nearly every day."

"Really?" Charlie grinned, and his chest puffed a little with pride. Don thought to himself that Charlie actually looked more proud that he'd forged a bond with his niece, than he did about the reception his papers were getting.

"So, did you get a bunch of questions at the grocery store?" Don asked. "Any reporters?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, none. A few looks, but no one bothered us. I really don't think today will be too bad."

He couldn't have been more wrong. It was a good thing that Charlie had a reserved parking place, Don thought to himself as he pulled in, because the parking lots were packed. Reporters were waiting right there by Charlie's spot, and immediately surged around the vehicle. Charlie's eyes widened and he turned a little pale, and Don suspected, rightly, that the crush of people was generating an attack of claustrophobia.

He and Alan flanked Charlie on either side, and somehow they managed the walk to the hall. By the time they got inside, Charlie was breathless, pale, and clammy, and Don wondered again if he wasn't trying to tackle the session too soon. Thankfully, the press was not allowed inside, and as they paused in the hallway so that Charlie could catch his breath, they could see through the double doors of the room where Charlie was to give his presentation. Rows of elite scientists filled the seats of the large lecture hall, many with notepads filled with questions, and to Don, they seemed an intimidating bunch. He couldn't imagine being grilled by some of the sharpest minds on the planet, and it was being recorded on film, no less. He looked at Charlie, thin and panting from the exertion and claustrophobia-induced discomfort, and had a sudden attack of anxiety, himself. No, this couldn't possibly be a good idea, to do this so soon. Charlie had so much riding on these papers…

"Charlie, hi!"

Amita's voice broke in on his thoughts, and Don turned to see her approaching, with a smile on her face. Charlie's discomfort, or much of it, seemed to melt away as he caught sight of her, and a smile, bigger and brighter than any that Don had seen for five years, lit up his face. They hugged, just briefly due to the professional atmosphere and the eyes on them, and then Amita stepped back. "Hi Don, Alan."

Don and Alan murmured greetings, as Charlie gazed at her, still grinning a little foolishly. "I wasn't sure you were going to make it. When did you get in?"

"This morning," she said, smiling at him. "I had to give a late lecture yesterday – I caught a flight out this morning. It just got in an hour ago."

"Too bad you had that lecture; you could have flown out with me last night." A deep male voice spoke, and they turned to look for the source, as a tall man with sandy hair stepped up smoothly next to Amita and put his arm around her.

Amita's smile changed to a look of consternation, and she immediately leaned away from the man, trying to put distance between them without causing a scene. "Jim! What are you doing here?"

Don's eyes narrowed. So this was Jim MacDonald. Don had heard about him from Alan - only from what Don had understood, he'd thought Amita had broken off the relationship. If she was playing games with Charlie… His eyes narrowed as he assessed their body language – Amita looked troubled, and taken a step away from MacDonald, who had dropped his arm, but kept close to her side. Was she simply embarrassed by the uncomfortable situation and attempting to save face; or did she truly not want to be near the man?

Don's gaze flicked to MacDonald. He was facing Charlie, a cool smile on his face. MacDonald was tall, nearly a head taller than Charlie, and looked fit, muscular; a physique that made Charlie look even more slight. Don sensed 'threat,' and unconsciously edged forward toward the gap between them, although the man's size advantage over his brother wasn't the main reason for his concern – it was the look of pure hatred coming from the keen gray eyes.

"Why wouldn't I come?" asked MacDonald, smoothly, his eyes still on Charlie, his gaze challenging. "This will undoubtedly be one of the most intriguing discussions of the year." He smiled, and raised a binder, meaningfully. "And trust me, I have lots of questions. I'm sorry, I haven't been introduced." He looked at Amita and quirked an eyebrow.

She shot him a perturbed glance and then addressed the group. "Professor Charles Eppes, his father Alan, and his brother, Don. This is Jim MacDonald – a colleague of mine at MIT."

He smiled and leaned close to her, lips nearly brushing her hair, not seeming to notice the scowl on her face. "Really, my dear, we're more than just colleagues," he murmured, but loud enough so the others could hear. He turned back to the group with a condescending smile. "But then, I'm sure they already know that."

Charlie, to his credit, stood his ground. He faced MacDonald squarely, kept his gaze and his voice even, and purposely ignored MacDonald's last comment. "Professor MacDonald, it'd good to meet you. I've heard about your work with subatomic particles; I'm sure you'll find some of my theories useful in predicting their behavior. I'm looking forward to our discussion. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready for the presentation."

It was a dismissal, and MacDonald's smile faded. He regained it with an effort and nodded, although the ugly look in his eyes intensified. "Yes, I am anticipating our discourse." He raised his binder again in a kind of salute, and the veiled threat was clear; MacDonald was obviously going to do everything in his power to tear apart Charlie's papers, or at the very least, cast some doubt on his theories. He turned to Amita. "Coming, Amita?"

She looked distressed, and shook her head. "Not yet."

Displeasure dimmed his smile slightly, and he inclined his head, turned on his heel, and strode away. Don's eyes followed him, and he noticed that he joined two other men, just inside the hall doorway. MacDonald spoke to them, they glanced at Charlie, and then the group drifted in to find their seats.

Amita looked miserably at Charlie. "I'm sorry, Charlie – I had no idea he would be here."

"I thought you'd broken it off." Charlie's voice was quiet, non-accusatory, but Don could see the doubt and the hurt in his eyes. Don exchanged a troubled glance with Alan, and knew that his father was thinking the same thing – that this drama was the last thing Charlie needed before going in to defend his life's work.

"I _did_," insisted Amita, with quiet vehemence. "He moved out over a week ago, as soon as he could find a place. I made it clear that I consider us just friends, but he's purposely pretending not to get it." She shot an annoyed glance over her shoulder, in MacDonald's direction. "In fact, after today, he's lost his 'friend' status. He's just trying to make trouble for us – and for you, today, obviously. You need to ignore him."

Charlie's face had relaxed a bit at her response, but his mouth twisted ruefully at her last statement. "I have a feeling he's going to make that a little tough to do."

The anger in her face faded into misery. "I'm so sorry, Charlie. I was stupid about this – I should have waited to break it off until after your talk – I just never thought he'd do this -,"

"Forget it," said Charlie, and he stepped forward and took her in his arms, despite the curious glances in their direction. "It's not your fault, and you could hardly go on living in the same apartment, could you? I can handle anything he throws at me, don't worry."

He kissed her cheek lightly, stepped back, and took a breath as he glanced at the three of them. "And now, I'd better get in there." He pointed to a closed unmarked door a few yards to the left of the double doors. "That's the backstage door. I'll meet you there afterward. Wish me luck." He grinned a little crookedly and walked away, his head up and his back straight, although Don could see tension in his posture.

Amita swallowed, trying to contain tears that were threatening to spill, and said, "We should get in there, too. Are you both attending this? Larry has saved some seats in front."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," declared Alan, and he offered his arm to Amita with a flourish. It was a sign that she'd at least earned Alan's trust, and she dashed away a tear, and took his arm with a shaky and grateful smile.

Don followed them in, but didn't take a seat near them. Instead, he looked for Jim MacDonald. As he found him, sitting in the center a few rows up, the man's head turned and he caught sight of Don, and their gazes locked. Don's stare was direct and pointed, and he was sure MacDonald caught its meaning – _'Mess with my brother, and you'll deal with me.'_

MacDonald looked away with an arrogant smirk, and Don made his way up the steps to the back of the lecture hall. There were two campus security guards stationed there, and Don stopped and flashed his FBI ID. He pointed out MacDonald, and said, "There's a chance that man may try to cause a disturbance today. Be prepared to escort him out, if necessary." Then Don descended the steps down the center aisle. There weren't many vacant seats, but he found one on the end of a row – just across from MacDonald, and two rows back, where he could keep an eye on him. Down below, he could see his father and Amita, who had taken seats next to Larry in the front row.

The curtains were drawn across the stage, and in front of them was a large screen. To the right of that a table had been set up, with a few chairs behind it. The buzz of conversation in the room quieted as the President of the University, Matthew James, and Dean Mackenzie Wilson ascended the steps to the stage and took places behind the table. A moment later, Charlie appeared from behind the curtain and joined them. Don could sense the anticipation in the room, could see it on every face. A cameraman was stationed on either side of the stage; one camera was trained on the table, and the other on the audience, to record the proceedings. There was a microphone on the table in front of Charlie and another standing toward the front of the stage. Dean Wilson got up from his seat and went to it, apparently assuming the role of master of ceremonies. He introduced President James, who joined him at the microphone, greeted the audience, and put in a plug for Cal Sci, and then Wilson announced, with a rather pompous smile and a grand wave of his arm, "And may I present to you, Cal Sci's own Professor Charles Eppes!"

The room erupted into applause, and Charlie colored a bit as Dean Wilson and President James stepped down from the stage and took seats in the audience. Charlie was alone behind the table, and as he waved down the applause with an abashed smile, Don was struck anew by how frail he still looked. Charlie was going to conduct the session from his seat, apparently, Don noted with relief, as his brother pulled the microphone toward him.

"Thank you," said Charlie, into the microphone, as the screen behind him flickered to life and the title page of his paper on cognitive emergence appeared. Charlie glanced toward the screen, and said, "A few weeks ago, most of you received a copy of this paper and another entitled _Mathematical Modeling of Subatomic Particles with Associated Impact of Dimensional Significance. _I should say, those papers were a finished but rough draft; advance working copies to a select group of people. I will be publishing them officially and releasing them to the public by the end of the month, with a few tweaks."

Jim MacDonald's voice, loud and derisive, cut the air. "And why is that, Professor? Have you already found inconsistencies?" He ignored the surprised murmurs and looks of consternation sent his way, and kept his gaze, angry and challenging, on Charlie.

Charlie's eyebrows rose slightly, and he smiled. "No, Professor MacDonald; thanks for asking – that was precisely the point I was trying to make. I wanted to assure the group here today that none of the mathematical content of the papers will change. The official versions will have some added acknowledgements – most notably recognition of Professor Larry Fleinhardt." Charlie waved a hand toward Larry, who was staring back at him with a look of astonishment, and blushing furiously. "Professor Fleinhardt has been a sounding board for me throughout my career, and his discussions with me have contributed to these papers in ways impossible to enumerate." Charlie's grin widened, and turned teasing. "The official versions will also benefit from the eyes of a good editor. As most of you know, my spelling isn't always consistent with Webster's English Dictionary."

The crowed chuckled at that, and MacDonald sat back in his seat, scowling, as Don grinned to himself_. 'Round one, Professor Charles Eppes. Maybe that exchange would shut MacDonald up,'_ he thought to himself.

At first, it seemed that MacDonald had been cowed into submission. He had no questions for the Cognitive Emergence paper, although one of the men who had come with him, another professor from MIT named Rahman, who was seated in another part of the audience, questioned several points of the paper. MacDonald had obviously asked Rahman to study the paper, and to try to discredit it. Although Don didn't have the background to understand the points or Charlie's replies, exactly, he could tell that Charlie seemed to have an answer to every challenge, and that the audience seemed satisfied by his responses.

MacDonald didn't speak again until the paper on dimensional theory was presented. Although Charlie's cognitive emergence paper had generated a lot of interest, Don could sense that most of the crowd was anticipating the second paper. If this had been a boxing match, Don thought to himself, the dimensional theory paper would be the headliner. It generated many questions, most of them polite attempts to understand the theory, but MacDonald and the second man Don had seen with him, another professor from MIT named Britt, launched an all-out attack. They questioned every aspect of the theory, every step in Charlie's logic, and their tones were accusatory, disbelieving. It was clear to Don that Britt was something of an expert on the subject, and that MacDonald had recruited him to come and attack it. It was also clear that MacDonald had most likely spent hours studying Charlie's paper himself, looking for ways to poke holes in Charlie's premises. After a few attempts, Britt acquiesced and lapsed into grudging silence, but MacDonald stayed on the attack.

As Don watched the proceedings, a profound admiration for his brother began to dawn. Charlie was fresh from captivity, literally only days from death's door, and yet, here he was, answering each question, parrying each accusation, with quiet confidence. He was in his element here, Don realized, and the more he became convinced of that, the prouder he was – and the more troubled he became. Charlie belonged here – in academia – not poking around in criminal investigations, in contact with the dregs of society. By the end of the three-hour presentation, Don was both saddened, and convinced. He couldn't possibly ask Charlie to come back to consult for him – and why would Charlie want to? He had achieved everything he'd dreamed of doing in the academic world and was now in a position to influence his profession - significantly. And there was Amita, gazing at him with adoring eyes from the front row – if Charlie wanted to rekindle that relationship that would take time, also. "It's not fair," Don whispered to himself, but he wasn't sure if he meant that it wasn't fair to ask Charlie to come back, or if life itself wasn't fair. Everyone in that auditorium had the opportunity to ask Charlie questions that day, except him – and the one question that was on his lips couldn't be asked, not if he really cared about Charlie.

The presentation ended, and as Charlie stood, the crowd in the auditorium burst into spontaneous applause, and rose to their feet. Charlie looked tired, but he smiled and ducked his head in response, and then the smile broadened as his eyes met Don's. Don lifted his fist in a salute, and then, as Charlie looked away, vacated his end seat so that people could exit, and moved up the steps to the back of the auditorium. One of the security guards stepped over to him. "You were right," he said. "That guy was a real idiot, but the Professor seemed to be handling him okay, so we let him be."

Don smiled ruefully. "Yeah, that was the right thing to do. I think Charlie took care of him pretty well."

The guard grinned. "Not that I understood a word of it, mind you, but if anything, I think the guy kinda helped him out – askin' tough questions, and Professor Eppes had an answer for every one of them. I'd say the guy's approach kinda backfired on him." He grinned with satisfaction. "Jerk."

Don's grinned widened. "You got that right."

He looked back down at the auditorium and realized that many of the people had already filed out. Charlie had disappeared behind the curtain, no doubt making for the backstage door. Alan, Amita, and Larry had already exited. Don looked around for MacDonald, half-intending to give him a piece of his mind, but he couldn't see him either, so he made his way down the steps, and out the double doors.

He found Alan, Amita, and Larry waiting by the backstage door. "Charlie hasn't come out yet?" he asked, and Alan shook his head.

"No, I'm not sure what's keeping him. He looked exhausted by the end, and his voice was getting pretty hoarse. He did great, though, didn't he? Did you see him when you walked out?"

Don shook his head, and reached for the door handle. "No, he must have gone backstage. He's probably trapped by his fans. I'll go see if I can rescue him."

It was surprisingly dark behind the curtain, and Don frowned as the backstage door shut behind him, and looked down as he carefully navigated the five steps up to stage level. He could hear voices and dimly make out two figures at the other end of the stage, and shook his head. What a place to carry on a conversation – behind the curtain, in nearly pitch darkness. One of the voices was obviously Charlie's. Don was only a few steps across the stage before he realized that the other voice belonged to Jim MacDonald.

His head came up and his eyes narrowed, trying to pierce the darkness and assess the situation, even as he moved quietly forward. He could make out the figures, just barely – MacDonald's tall body looming over Charlie's slight form. MacDonald's voice floated through the darkness, softly. "You think you're so smart, you little shit. Mr. Math God – you love all that publicity, don't you? You just drink it up."

Don wondered why Charlie was standing there and taking MacDonald's verbal abuse, and he hesitated for just a moment, squinting through the blackness, trying to determine what was going on. His big-brother instincts were telling him to charge over, spin MacDonald around and deliver a soul-satisfying punch, but Charlie had done such a good job with the man in the auditorium, he didn't want to steal his thunder. Charlie might want to put the offensive idiot in his place, himself.

Charlie's voice came, soft, husky, somewhat raspy from all the discussion. "Step out of my way, MacDonald. Don't do something you'll regret."

Those words propelled Don forward, and he squinted again, as he approached, trying to make them out in the darkness. Was MacDonald physically blocking Charlie from leaving? Was he threatening him?

MacDonald spoke in a hiss, the words distorted by rage. "You stay away from her, or I'll do something _you'll_ regret, you understand?"

Don was now close enough to see their positions, their silhouettes outlined by the dim light coming from around the curtains. MacDonald had Charlie backed up against the rear wall of the stage and was towering over him, but Charlie wasn't backing down. His head was up, as he shot back angrily, "_You_ stay away from her. She's made it clear that she doesn't want you around. If you continue to harass her, I'll make sure that a restraining order gets issued against you."

MacDonald's response was a muffled cry of rage, and Don's heart jumped in his chest as the man surged forward suddenly, put his hands near Charlie's throat, and thumped him against the back wall, hard. Charlie's hands came up and he grasped MacDonald's wrists, but he was no match physically for the larger man – he probably wouldn't have been even if hadn't been weakened by his ordeal. It didn't matter, though, because Don closed the remaining distance between them in three bounds, and with a flying tackle, connected with MacDonald's midsection. They all went down, Charlie one direction, and Don and MacDonald the other, and Don found himself astride a sputtering MacDonald, with his hands pinning down his arms. He leaned down into the man's face. "Got anything else to say, asshole?"

MacDonald's eyes widened as he realized who it was, and he struggled to free himself. "This – you – I'm filing charges – this is assault!"

"And that wasn't?" Don asked coldly, with jerk of his head toward Charlie. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that Charlie was still down, but he could hear him stirring. "Did it occur to you that I'm a law officer, and that you're resisting arrest? You have the right to remain silent -,"

"No." Charlie's voice was quiet, and sounded as though it had been spoken through gritted teeth. "Let him up."

Don glanced back sharply. "Charlie, he threatened and assaulted you."

"I know. Just let him up." Don reluctantly released his grip on MacDonald's arms and climbed to his feet, then stepped over to Charlie, and with one eye on MacDonald, grabbed Charlie's hand and helped him up. Charlie swayed a little. Don put a hand on his arm to steady him, and could feel him shaking, most likely from both adrenaline and fatigue. Somehow, Charlie managed to straighten and face MacDonald, who had clambered to his feet. His brother's voice was hoarse, and tight with anger. "I won't file charges if you agree to stay away from me in the future, and more to the point, stay away from Amita. If I hear that you're bothering her, I'll come after you with everything I have."

MacDonald snorted in derision, but choked it off with a wary look in Don's direction. "Very well. I'll agree to that, because if Amita agrees to talk to me of her own accord, you won't have any say in the matter – and she _will_ talk to me. She'll come to her senses – she loves me." With that, he shrugged his shoulders and jerked on his lapels to straighten his jacket, and stepped away, slipping out past the curtain into the auditorium.

Don peered down at Charlie in the darkness. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just got a bump on the back of my head from where it hit the wall." He sounded exhausted. "Let's just go home, okay?"

"Charlie," Don said, hesitantly, "you probably should have pressed charges. You still can."

"No." Charlie's voice was firm. "I didn't want to say this in front of him, but neither Amita nor I need the kind of publicity that would generate. I'll only do that if I have to – if he keeps bothering Amita. Let's just drop it – he's a bright guy, I'm sure he'll cool down and do the sensible thing."

Don grinned at him in the darkness. "You sure put him in his place during the presentation."

Charlie's head came up, and Don could just make out his grin in the darkness. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?"

Don threw an arm around his shoulders, and they turned to cross the stage. "C'mon then, let's go home. Mr. Math God, huh? I kinda like the sound of that."

* * *

End, Chapter 27


	28. Chapter 28

**WP**

**Chapter 28 – Everything is Numbers**

_A/N: And now for the final chapter…_

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

* * *

_Thursday, May 23, 2014, early evening_

Charlie pulled up outside the Jazz Steps Dance Studio with an almost giddy sense of excitement. The pieces of his life seemed to be falling back into place. Even the act of driving around town after years of confinement was exhilarating. Since his release from the hospital, his days had been full; he'd been on the phone or the computer when he hadn't been sleeping, and yesterday, the day after the presentation, he'd spent almost all day with Amita. He adored his niece and loved spending time with her; they'd sat and played with his old abacus for hours when she came to visit on Sunday. He had his home back, and his father, God bless him – was still there for him, just as if he'd never left. Alan had fallen asleep in his armchair with the paper last evening, and Charlie had just sat there looking at him, with tears of happiness in his eyes – he'd missed him so much, and could scarcely believe that he got to see him, every day now. He gave him a quick hug every morning in greeting, just because he could.

The nights weren't so good yet; the darkness reminded him of the basement. He couldn't go to bed without a glass of water on the nightstand, and as soon as he fell asleep, the nightmares would take over. The nights made the days seem so much more wonderful, however, and each night was just a little bit better than the last. Still, there was one piece of his life missing – a big one. There was no one he had missed as much as his brother, and in spite of all the good things that had happened to him lately, none of them would mean much if he couldn't have that one piece back – the chance to work side by side with Don again, to be part of his team. He had a feeling that Don had asked him to come here this evening not just to see Charlotte, but to talk, and he had an even stronger feeling that today might be the day that Don asked him to come back to consult.

He parked the car and looked around the lot, anticipation doing some dance steps of its own inside his gut. Don's SUV wasn't there, but he hadn't even had a chance to ponder whether he should wait outside or in, when it pulled up.

Charlie got out of a vehicle with a grin, and met them in front of the studio. Charlotte was hopping with excitement. "Unca Charwee! Unca Charwee!" she squealed, cavorting around his legs in a pale blue leotard and pink tights. Don smiled, and Charlie grinned back. Don's smile looked a little strained, and it made Charlie wonder what was happening at the office. He couldn't wait to find out.

"Better get in there," was all Don said. "They're big on discipline here; they don't like it when the students are late."

"But she's three," Charlie protested. "How serious can this be?"

Don mouth quirked ruefully. "She can actually join the competition team next year, if we let her. Trust me; to the teachers in this place, it's serious."

They stepped inside, and Don nodded at the woman behind the desk, and signed Charlotte's name on a roster. "This is my brother," he said, "he's here to watch."

The woman looked Charlie over carefully, and nodded. Charlie couldn't resist dropping a hint as they stepped inside. "Man," he murmured teasingly, "this is almost as hard as getting access to the FBI offices." He grinned at Don, expecting him to smile back, but all he got was a quick twist of the lips, and averted eyes. Don bent quickly to take off Charlotte's sneakers, pulled white patent leather shoes out of her dance bag, and slipped them on her feet. Charlie caught a glimpse of metal pieces screwed to the toe and the heel of one her shoes as Don deftly strapped it on her foot. His eyebrows rose. "You sure seem to have the shoe thing down. What is that, a tap shoe?"

Don nodded. "She has tap first, then ballet, then tumbling. It's a combination class, about twenty minutes of each. I can handle the shoes, but when it comes to the rest of it – the costumes and stuff, well, that's all Robin."

Charlie glanced around them. They were in a common area with benches, and around them were four large windows that looked into four classrooms. There were only two other observers; apparently, most of the parents dropped the students off and left. He noted with satisfaction that it would be a relatively private place to talk. As he watched, an older girl sailed by one of the classroom windows in a wild, contorted leap. Charlie's eyes widened. "Wow."

Don glanced at the window, as he ushered Charlotte toward the door to her classroom. "Yeah, that's one of the competition teams, some of the older students. They're pretty good. The teacher keeps asking if we want to put Charlotte in the mini competition program next year, but it's a big commitment. She's already going two nights a week, and with our schedules – well, it's hard to get her here as it is." He lowered his voice, as Charlotte trotted into the room, and he closed the door behind her. "Robin likes the idea, but me, well, I'd rather get her into baseball."

"You mean softball."

"Baseball," Don said firmly, but there was a teasing twinkle in his eyes. Finally, he looked like he was relaxing a bit.

Charlie looked through the glass. "Won't she be distracted, if she knows we're watching?" he asked. Even through the glass, he could hear the metallic sounds of the students' tap shoes, and the teacher's voice.

"The smaller kids' classroom has a one-way mirror, just for that reason," said Don, his eyes on his daughter.

Charlie dropped another hint. "Just like the FBI offices." He glanced at Don with a grin, but Don ignored him, his eyes still forward. Charlie's grin faded at bit, but then he shook it off, and faced the window. "_Probably wants to work up to it_," he thought. "_Be patient._"

The teacher had lined the children in two rows; thirteen little girls and one boy, and then she stood on one leg, and pointed her other foot. She raised her leg up and down in an exaggerated motion, tapping her toe on the floor. "Okay, now, remember what we learned the last time. Right - Toe, heel, toe. Left – Toe, heel, toe. Toe, toe, stomp. Toe, toe stomp… good, okay, again. Now, toe, shuffle stomp. Toe, shuffle, stomp. Good. Now let's add the music."

Charlie watched Charlotte, musing. "She's one of the best ones," he said with pride. "You know, there's a mathematical aspect to this. Dancing and listening to music helps develop the areas of the brain that process mathematical concepts."

Don smirked a little. "Great. Now Robin has another reason to push for dance."

The teacher started the music. "Okay, class, and five, six, seven, eight -,"

"Nine, ten, 'leven, twelve!" chirped Charlotte in response.

"Charlotte, no talking," warned the teacher.

"Sirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sisteen," lisped Charlotte, giggling, and Don and Charlie exchanged a grin.

"Charlotte -,"

"Se'enteen, eighteen, nineteen, _twenty_!" Charlotte ended triumphantly, and broke off into peals of laughter.

"That's my niece!" exclaimed Charlie proudly.

Don sent him a wry look. "She listens like you, too."

Charlie chuckled and shot him a sideways glance, as the teacher started the music again. "Five, six, seven, eight -,"

Don glanced at him again, and Charlie could see a hint of speculation in his eye. '_Here it comes_,' he thought to himself.

"Charlie, I know I said we could come watch Charlotte a couple of days a week, but I'm not sure I can make it next week," Don said. "We caught a hot case – I'm not sure how long it's going to last, but Dad said he'd bring Charlotte to class. He does that sometimes, when Robin and I both get tied up."

Charlie nodded, expectantly. '_That's his lead-in. He's going to ask for help on that case…' _"Sure," he said. "No problem." He waited, but Don just nodded, a bit wearily, and turned back to look through the window.

Charlie stared at him uncertainly, his smile fading. "Uh, what kind of case?" he prompted him. He could feel his gut doing an odd little apprehensive flip-flop.

Don kept his eyes on Charlotte, and shrugged. "Just another case. Trust me, you don't want to know."

Charlie swallowed. "Yeah - yeah, I do want to know."

Don glanced at him, a little uncomfortably, and then looked away again. "Charlie – just drop it, okay?"

Charlie stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then managed to collect himself, and turned to look back through the window, but the view didn't register; his mind was numb from a suffocating sense of disappointment. He'd been so certain, so sure that Don would want him back, and he didn't at all. Hell, maybe Don had wanted him out of there even before he'd gone into witness protection, and couldn't find a good way to tell him. Charlie thought back, his heart twisting, to those days, some of the best of his life. The growing sense of closeness, the camaraderie – had it all been a lie? Or perhaps it had been real, but Don had grown away from him, had moved on… Charlie couldn't decide which was worse. All he knew was that the bubble of hope that he'd been riding on for the past two weeks, as he picked up the pieces of a shattered life, had suddenly burst.

"So," said Don. "How is Amita?" He still looked uncomfortable, and was keeping his eyes forward. He was obviously trying to make conversation, but it was strained – like talking to a stranger.

Charlie swallowed, cleared his throat. "She's – she's good. She went back to Boston this morning, but yesterday, she was in talking to Dean Wilson about the possibility of coming back to Cal Sci."

Don raised an eyebrow, and glanced at him. "So what'd he say?"

Charlie stared through the window. '_Why are we talking about this_,' he asked himself, '_when you don't really care?_' He watched Charlotte for a moment before he answered, trying to relax the lump in his throat enough to talk. "I don't know. I mean, Cal Sci's interested, but she's not sure if or when MIT would let her go. It's complicated."

He could feel Don's eyes on him, but this time, he was the one who kept his eyes forward, his face closed. It hurt too much to do otherwise – to look at the brother he had once, and see a stranger in his place.

* * *

_Sunday, May 26, 2014, late afternoon_

Don sat slumped on the sofa at the Craftsman, one arm slung over the back, brooding. He'd taken a couple of hours off the case to show up at the Craftsman with Robin and Charlotte for Sunday dinner. It was a hell of a case; someone – they suspected a gang of youths – was spree-killing homeless people, beating them to death for the sport of it. He and the L.A. team had been working long hours; the gang had been careful in the selection of their victims and locations and so far, no one had spotted them – but then, the victims were homeless. There would be a lot more outcry, a lot more vigilance if the deceased had been some of the more affluent members of society.

They had a few leads from street people, but it was hard to tell if any of the information was of any value – their informants' perceptions were skewed by alcohol, drugs, mental illness, and hysteria. They needed a way to filter out the 'noise,' as Charlie would have put it, and pare the information down to real hard leads. Their resident consultant, Mike Stillman, was working on it, but Don could tell he was floundering; he had yet to come with any kind of approach. Charlie would have completed an algorithm by now.

The case, as bad as it was, was only a small part of his sour mood, however. The bigger reason for it was Charlie, himself. Don's meeting with his brother at the dance studio had seemed to start out well, but it had rapidly fallen flat. After a short exchange, the conversation had trailed off. Don had tried to get him to talk about Amita, but his brother had given him the briefest of responses; just enough information to answer his question, and then he'd seemed to close up, and seemed more interested in Charlotte than he was in talking to Don. In fact, Charlie and Charlotte were together now, the two dark curly heads bent over Charlie's abacus across the room. Not that Don begrudged their relationship – he was, in fact, glad for it, because he was beginning to fear that if it weren't for Charlotte, he'd have no excuse to see his brother at all. It would be nice, though, if he and his brother could connect on something – anything. They weren't all that hot on conversation – never had been. They needed something to talk _about_, a reason to converse. It really didn't matter what it was – somehow they communicated thoughts and feelings through the subtext. The problem was, they weren't talking about anything now, and Don didn't know how to fix that. Well, he did, but he didn't want to go there. Charlie was obviously perfectly happy with his current life, and he didn't apparently didn't need or want to consult again.

It was true, said a little voice inside his head, that Charlie _had_ asked him about his current case at the dance studio, and _had_ made an offhand remark or two about the FBI offices. Maybe that meant he was interested, said the voice, but Don squelched the idea. Charlie didn't give up on anything that he wanted that easily, and he hadn't said anything about the case since, so he had probably just been making polite conversation. Even if Charlie _would_ consider coming back, it wasn't in his best interests. Consulting for law enforcement had almost gotten him killed, not once, but twice. By not bringing up the possibility, Don was doing him a favor. That was his decision, and he was sticking to it, no matter how painful it was.

He listened to Charlie's voice float across the room. "How much is this many, and this many?"

There was a hesitation, then Charlotte crowed triumphantly, "Five!" Don's gaze rested fondly on her dark curly head. She was extremely bright, more advanced than any of her peers at preschool, but she was no genius, thank God. He couldn't imagine what his parents had gone through to raise Charlie, and he was having a tough enough time dealing with that one particular genius already. He watched them for a moment, then sighed, grabbed the remote, and flicked on the sports channel.

* * *

In the kitchen, Robin bent and rummaged in the vegetable bin of the refrigerator. "Are you sure you have a pepper? Oh, there it is." She straightened, closed the door of the refrigerator, and headed over for the sink, waving a green pepper at Alan. "I've got it. What's for dinner? It smells great."

"Stuffed shells and meatballs," said Alan, as he bent and opened the oven door. "Although I may go straight to that cake you brought – it looks wonderful." He straightened, closed the oven door, and glanced at her. "So, what's eating Donnie?"

Robin put the pepper on a cutting board, and began to chop. "Well, he's got that case –,"

"Yes, the murders of those poor homeless people. That is a horrible thing."

Robin shot a glance over her shoulder, and her voice dropped conspiratorially. "But if you ask me, I think the situation with Charlie is bothering him as much, if not more."

Alan sidled over to her, and dropped his own voice, with a puzzled look. "Situation with Charlie?"

Robin nodded with another glance at the door, and lowered her voice further, to a near whisper. "Don was going round and round over whether he should ask Charlie to start consulting again. He really wanted to – I think he loved working with Charlie, and to tell you the truth, I think those two have a hard time connecting without some other excuse to talk, like work."

Alan grimaced and rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

"But," she continued, "he wasn't sure if it was the best thing for Charlie – with Charlie's recent success in the academic world, and his relationship taking off with Amita, plus everything he'd been through recently – well, anyway, Don couldn't decide if he should ask him. He talked to me, he talked to his rabbi, and we both told him that he should let Charlie make the decision. So I think he might have asked him last week, when they went to watch Charlotte's dance lesson, and Charlie must have turned him down. Don refused to talk about it when he came back, which was suspicious in itself, and he's been really down lately, and grumpier than a bear."

Alan's brow furrowed. "That's odd. I remember; Charlie left the house that night in a great mood, and came home looking upset, himself, and he's been brooding ever since. After what he went through though, I just figured he was still healing, mentally, and didn't think much of it. The even odder thing is, I can't imagine him turning that offer down. He loved working with Don, too, and he's always had a tough time saying 'no' to his brother. Something doesn't sound quite right, there."

Robin looked at him. "Maybe you should talk to them. I can't get Don to open up on it – maybe he'll talk to you."

Alan pursed his lips, and nodded. "Sure. It wouldn't be the first time I had to knock the two of their heads together." He smiled at her, and winked. "Let's get this dinner on, shall we?"

Alan's first opportunity came after dinner, and he pounced on it. Charlie was helping him clear dishes, and the two of them were alone in the kitchen. "So, I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised you aren't taking a look at this latest case of Don's. Of course, it's understandable; you're still recuperating, and you've been very busy – but I've never known you to be sensible before, when there was a case that could use your help."

Charlie straightened from placing a dish in the dishwasher and stared at him, sourly. "What, are you trying to rub salt in the wound?"

Alan quirked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Charlie scowled, and put another dish in the rack. "I mean he hasn't asked me. When we went to Charlotte's dance lesson last week, I hinted about the office and any open cases until I was blue in the face, and he told me to 'just drop it.' I think it's pretty obvious, he doesn't want me back – probably never wanted me there to begin with."

"Oh, now, Charlie, that's not true."

Charlie sighed. "You know, I never really knew if he kept me around just because of the math and the help I could give him, or because he liked working with me. I think it's pretty obvious now – he's got another math consultant, so he doesn't need my help from that standpoint. The only reason he'd ask me to come back would be because he really did like working with me. Apparently, he didn't. Or if he did, he's moved on. He's married, Dad, he's got a family, a bigger job; he's got his own life. He doesn't really need me anymore."

"Charlie, it's not just a question of need, with Don. You're not just another consultant to him; you're his brother. Have you ever considered that he might have had second thoughts about dragging you into that world again, after what happened to you?"

Charlie stared at him and his scowl faded a bit. "Then why wouldn't he just say so?"

Alan sighed. "Probably for the same reason that you won't come out and tell him what's bothering you."

Charlie was silent for a moment. "I don't know, Dad," he said doubtfully.

Alan's eyes narrowed, speculatively. "Don't know what? Whether you really want to go back to that or not?"

"No!" Charlie looked shocked by the question. "Of course I would go back. I miss working with him – I miss him." He looked at Alan earnestly. "Dad, when I was lying there, in that basement -,"

Alan raised a hand as if to ward off the image and turned his head, but Charlie moved a step closer, and continued, earnestly. "I had a lot of time to think. At the time, I'd thought I'd pretty much screwed up on everything that mattered – my papers, my relationship with Amita, and my chance to work with Don ever again. I asked myself if I could pick one, and only one, which one would be enough to make me happy, all by itself, and the answer was working with Don. The other things were wonderful, don't get me wrong, but I felt if I never got that chance again, that would bother me the most."

"Hey, Dad, we're getting ready to go! I have to get back to the office!" Don's voice floated through the kitchen door from the other room, and Alan set down his dishtowel.

He smiled gently at Charlie, and shook his head. "Then why don't you do something about it?" Then he turned and headed into the other room, leaving Charlie staring after him.

Don and Robin were gathering up Charlotte and her toys, and as Don bent to pick up his daughter, he flashed Alan a look of apology. "Sorry we can't stay longer – I need to get back to the office," he said, and Alan saw his eyes travel over his shoulder as he heard Charlie push through the kitchen door behind him. "We'll see you guys later, okay?"

Charlie nodded, and said quietly, "Thanks for coming." Two dark pairs of eyes rested on each other for a moment, and Alan could read identical expressions in them – uncertainty, hurt, frustration. Robin filled the silence with a wave, a thank-you and a good-bye, and headed out the door, and then Don nodded, curtly, and followed her. Charlie retreated to the kitchen again, his shoulders slumped, and Alan followed the others to the front door, where he watched his older son's retreating back with an assessing stare. He apparently had some more work to do.

* * *

_Monday,_ _May 27, 2014, noon_

Don stepped out of the conference room, and headed wearily for his office. He'd been in late the night before, and early that morning, as had David and the L.A. team. They'd just gotten done with another fruitless meeting, and a sense of deep discouragement pervaded him. They were spinning their wheels on this case, and getting no traction.

He stopped short at the door of his office as a familiar figure, seated in a chair, smiled at him. "I brought lunch," said Alan, holding up a sack. "Chicken burritos, from Agave Azule."

Don's stomach growled as he walked past the sack and smelled the aroma, and he took a seat behind his desk. He took a proffered burrito, and began to unwrap it. "Thanks. I left home without a lunch today – how'd you guess?"

Alan grinned, and gestured with his burrito. "Oh, let me see – you're working long hours, meeting yourself coming and going, you're pre-occupied, and oh yes, you're just getting back to normal after Charlie's – situation. Wouldn't surprise me if you're forgetting to eat."

Don took a bite, and chewed appreciatively. "Yeah, well, the case is a nasty one, and we're getting nowhere." He sighed, and dropped his voice. "Between you and me, our math guy is decent, and he's thorough, but he sure isn't anywhere near as fast as Charlie was." He shrugged, and spoke around another bite. "But then, even my best consultant – the one up in Vegas – doesn't measure up to Charlie, and I can't really expect them to. There are only so many certifiable geniuses running around."

Alan eyed him. "So why don't you ask Charlie for help?"

Don scowled. "Come on, Dad, you're starting to sound like Robin. You know why."

His father looked suspiciously innocent. "No, I don't."

Don's eyes narrowed. "You think after he spent five years in witness protection and two weeks in captivity, and nearly got killed twice as a result of his consulting activities, that I'm going to ask him to come back to that stuff?"

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that his decision to make? You could at least ask him."

Don's scowl deepened and he bit into his sandwich. "Yeah, well, I'm not. And anyway, he's not interested. If he was interested, he'd be pestering the hell out of me, and he isn't – he barely speaks to me anymore. He's moved on, Dad, he's got a new life – all that stuff going on with his papers, he's going to be traveling with that, and going back and forth to Boston, I'm sure, to see Amita. He doesn't need this anymore."

Alan pursed his lips. "Well, yes, you're probably right, he doesn't need – this." He waved a hand in the general direction of the office. "What he does need is you."

Don snorted softly. "No, he doesn't, Dad. He's made that pretty clear. I tried to talk to him the other night at Charlotte's dance studio, and it was like talking to a stranger. He made a few polite comments, then clammed up and spent the rest of the time watching her dance lesson – he wouldn't even look at me." He ran a weary hand over his face.

"I think you're wrong," said Alan mildly, munching his sandwich. "In fact, I _know_ you're wrong."

"Oh yeah?" challenged Don. "And how do you know?"

"Because I asked him," said Alan simply. "It's really not that hard. Why don't you try it?"

* * *

_Thursday,_ _May 30, 2014, noon_

Don pulled his SUV at the curb outside of the Craftsman, turned off the ignition, and just sat for a moment.

He'd spent the last three days pondering his conversation with his father. Alan hadn't come right out and said it, but he'd seemed to insinuate that he'd talked to Charlie, and that Charlie had indicated that he'd consider a return to consulting. The flash of hope that had shot through Don at that moment had almost changed his mind on the spot; he had the urge to take off right then, go find his brother and beg him to come back. As the afternoon had worn on, however, doubt had returned. Even if Charlie wanted to come back, was it the right thing to ask him? And if he did really want to come back, then that might mean he would want to take a shot at a relationship, whether or not he consulted. If that was true, they didn't really need to work together. They could do some things outside work, maybe take in a ballgame, or even get away for a weekend and go camping…

As the week had worn on, though, reality had intruded. Who was he kidding? He barely had time to pee, much less go on a camping trip, and he was sure Charlie's schedule was just as busy – especially on the weekends, when he'd be trying to see Amita. They were both tied up with work, and Don had to fit his family into the plan now, too. These days, the only real shot they had at spending time together would be to work together.

A part of him argued that working together was no basis for a relationship anyway, but he knew that was wrong. The years he'd spent working with Charlie were some of the best of his life, and at least at that point in time, he thought that Charlie had felt the same way. Maybe Dad was right, maybe he still did.

It was that thought that drove him out to Cal Sci to seek out his brother – that thought, and necessity. The case had finally reached the point of critical mass. In an abrupt reversal, after ignoring the situation for days, the community had taken up the cause of the homeless victims, and protests and rallies were being held by community leaders and politicians. The change of heart was primarily due to the fact that the story had found its way to the national news, and the local politicians were raising a ruckus to get their faces on the national media. That very afternoon, the governor and a state senator had come to the FBI offices and met with Wright, and had insisted on putting some of their own people on to oversee the case, so now they had stuffed shirts sitting in every meeting, poking their noses into every decision. It was a circus, an impossible situation. Don had finally decided to ask Charlie for help – at least on this case. They could play it by ear, he told himself, see how it went. And maybe, if it went okay, Charlie might take another one…

Charlie's car wasn't at Cal Sci, and Don had wavered in the parking lot for a moment before taking a deep breath and heading for the Craftsman. His brother had probably gone home for lunch. Sure enough, when he pulled up outside, the blue Prius was sitting there. Still, Don hesitated.

The day was significant. It was May 30, five years to the day since Charlie had been shot in the front yard of the Craftsman. Don's eyes strayed to that spot in the yard, and then drifted to the water bottle, the one he'd found on the floor of the basement, which still sat in his cup holder. A little voice inside his head almost convinced him to turn around and go back to the office, but he slowly climbed out of the SUV, and grabbed the water bottle on the way.

He didn't go straight to the house, instead he drifted over to that spot in the front yard, remembering how he had stood there the morning after the shooting, how it had looked, with Charlie's blood staining the grass. He heard the front door open and light footsteps on the front step, but he didn't look up until Charlie stood right next to him.

There was concern on his brother's face. "Everything okay?" he asked softly.

Don looked at him. "Just recollecting," he said, and a confused look passed over Charlie's face, then it cleared as the realization dawned on him.

"Oh." He said nothing for a moment, and their gazes both drifted about the yard, out toward the street. Remembering.

Don lifted the water bottle. "I've been meaning to give this to you – I've been carrying it around in my SUV for a couple of weeks now." Charlie's forehead puckered in confusion, and Don went on. "When we found you in the basement, there was a bottle of water that had rolled a couple of feet away from you. You were lying there as though you were reaching for it. I probably should have turned it in to evidence, but there were other bottles there." He felt suddenly foolish. It was just a bottle of water, after all. "I, uh, thought maybe you'd want it."

Charlie gazed at it, and then looked up at Don somberly. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Actually, that means a lot," and Don's feeling of embarrassment faded. He held out the bottle, and Charlie took it, and somehow, the gesture felt like a handshake, an acknowledgment – as if he'd asked a question, and Charlie had answered it.

Don swallowed. "So, uh, we've got this case -,"

Charlie nodded. "The murders of the homeless people."

"Yeah, well, my math guy's not doing too well with it, hell, none of us are, and we, uh, well, I was wondering…,"

"If I could help you out on it." Charlie's finished the sentence; his voice was even, his dark eyes unreadable. '_Oh, hell,_' thought Don, '_he's going to say 'no_,'' but before he could even finish the thought, a quiet smile lit Charlie's face. "I thought you'd never ask."

His grin broadened, and excitement glimmered in his eyes. "I've already been working on it, with what I know from the news – wait here, I'm gonna grab my stuff -," and he was off, his lean form flying up the steps. Don just stood there, grinning stupidly, waiting. The sun seemed suddenly brighter, and old memories faded off into the shadows.

Charlie came dashing back down the steps a moment later, breathlessly trundling his computer case and a briefcase. "Sorry that took so long. I had to put away that bottle somewhere safe." Don grabbed the computer case and turned, and they fell into step together, heading toward his SUV. "Anyway, so I've been looking at the locations," began Charlie, but Don cut him off.

"Hold on, here, Chuck, before you get started, you need to understand the situation," Don interjected, but he had to grin in spite of himself. Charlie looked as ridiculously happy as he felt. Don tried to wipe the smile from his face, tried to look serious. "There's going to be a roomful of politicians there this afternoon; and they're going to start scrutinizing our every move. You can't just waltz in there and take over – they don't know you and they're probably not going to understand where you're coming from. To them, this is not going to be about math, or numbers."

Charlie looked up at him, grinning mischievously, and the sunlight glinted in his eyes. "Everything is numbers," he said softly.

Don shook his head, fondly. There was no argument for that, he thought to himself. Instead, he smiled at his brother and threw an arm over his shoulders, as they walked toward the SUV.

Finis

* * *

_A/N: Thanks so much for your time, attention, and reviews and comments. Obviously, I've left some openings for a sequel – Ramon Jimenez is in Mexico, but is still at large, and I've given Jim MacDonald reason to hate Don, Charlie and Amita. _

_I also have a couple of very old plot bunnies that I've been meaning to get to, so I'll have to decide which comes first__. Thanks so much again for reading this.... Serialgal_


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